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THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


I. 


It is close upon daybreak. The great wall of 
pines and hemlocks that keep off the east wind 
from Stillwater stretches black and indeterminate 
against the sky. At intervals a dull, metallic 
sound, like the guttural twang of a violin string, 
rises from the frog-invested swamp skirting the 
highway. Suddenly the birds stir in their nests 
over there in the woodland, and break into that 
wild jargoning chorus with which they herald the 
advent of a new day. In the apple-orchards and 
among the plum-trees of the few gardens in Still- 
water, the wrens and the robins and the blue-jays 
catch up the crystal crescendo, and what a melo- 
dious racket they make of it with their fifes and 
flutes and flageolets ! 

The village lies in a trance like death. Possibly 
not a soul hears this music, unless it is the watch 
ers at the bedside of Mr. Leonard Tappleton, the 



6 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


richest man in town, who has lain dying these 
three days, and cannot last till sunrise. Or per- 
haps some mother, drowsily hushing her wakeful 
baby, pauses a moment and listens vacantly to the 
birds singing. But who else? 

The hubbub suddenly ceases, — ceases as sud- 
denly as it began, — and all is still again in the 
woodland. But it is not so dark as before. A 
faint glow of white light is discernible behind the 
ragged line of the tree-tops. The deluge of dark- 
ness is receding from the face of the earth, as the 
mighty waters receded of old. 

The roofs and tall factory chimneys of Stillwater 
are slowly taking shape in the gloom. Is that a 
cemetery coming into view yonder, with its ghostly 
architecture of obelisks and broken columns and 
huddled head-stones? No, that is only Slocum’s 
Marble Yard, with the finished and unfinished 
work heaped up like snowdrifts, — a cemetery in 
embryo. Here and there in an outlying farm a 
lantern glimmers in the barn-yard : the cattle are 
having their fodder betimes. Scarlet-capped chant- 
icleer gets himself on the nearest rail-fence and 
lifts up his rancorous voice like some irate old 
cardinal launching the curse of Rome. Something 
crawls swiftly along the gray of the serpentine 
turnpike, — a cart, with the driver lashing a jaded 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 7 

Horse. A quick wind goes shivering by, and is lost 
in the forest. 

Now a narrow strip of two-colored gold stretches 
along the horizon. 

Stillwater is gradually coming to its senses. The 
Bun has begun to twinkle on the gilt cross of the 
Catholic chapel and make itself known to the 
doves in the stone belfry of the South Church. 
The patches of cobweb that here and there cling 
tremulously to the coarse grass of the inundated 
meadows have turned into silver nets, and the mill- 
pond — it will be steel-blue later — is as smooth 
and white as if it had been paved with one vast 
unbroken slab out of Slocum’s Marble Yard. 
Through a row of button-woods on the northern 
skirt of the village is seen a square, lap-streaked 
building, painted a disagreeable brown, and sur- 
lounded on three sides by a platform, — one of 
seven or eight similar stations strung like Indian 
beads on a branch thread of the Great Sagamore 
Railway. 

Listen ! That is the jingle of the bells on the 
baker’s cart as it begins its rounds. From in- 
numerable chimneys the curdled smoke gives evi- 
dence that the thrifty housewife — or, what is 
rarer in Stillwater, the hired girl — has lighted the 
kitchen fire. 


8 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


The chimney-stack of one house at the end of a 
small court — the last house on the easterly edge 
of the village, and standing quite alone — sends up 
no smoke. Yet the carefully trained ivy over the 
porch, and the lemon verbena in a tub at the foot 
of the steps, intimate that the place is not unoccu- 
pied. Moreover, the little schooner which acts as 
weather-cock on one of the gables, and is now head- 
ing due west, has a new top-,sail. It is a story-and- 
a-half cottage, with a large expanse of roof, which, 
covered with porous, unpainted shingles, seems to 
repel the sunshine that now strikes full upon it. 
The upper and lower blinds on the main building, 
as well as those on the extensions, are tightly 
closed. The appears to beat in vain at the 
casements of this silent house, which has a curi- 
ously sullen and defiant air, as if it had desperately 
and successfully barricaded itself against the ap- 
proach of morning; yet if one were standing in 
the room that leads from the bed-chamber on the 
ground-floor — the room with the latticed window — • 
one would see a ray of light thrust through a chink 
cf the shutters, and pointing like a human finger at 
an object which lies by the hearth. 

This finger, gleaming, motionless, and awful in 
its precision, points to the body of old Mr. Lemuel 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 9 

Sliackford, who lies there dead in his night-dress, 
with a gash across his forehead. 

In the darkness of that summer night a deed 
darker than the night itself had been done in Still- 
water. 


11 . 


That morning, when Michael Hennessey’s girl 
Mary — a girl sixteen years old — carried the can 
of milk to the rear door of the silent house, she was 
nearly a quarter of hour later than usual, and 
looked forward to being soundly rated. 

He’s up and been waiting for it,” she said to 
herself, observing the scullery door ajar. “ Won’t 
I ketch it ! It ’s him for growling and snapping at 
a body, and it ’s me for always being before or be- 
hind time, bad luck to me. There’s no plazing 
him.” 

Mary pushed back the door and passed through 
the kitchen, nerving herself all the while to meet 
the objurgations which she supposed were lying in 
wait for her. The sunshine was blinding without, 
but sifted through the green jalousies, it made a 
gray, crepuscular light within. As the girl ap- 
proached the table, on which a plate with knife 
and fork had been laid for breakfast, she noticed 
lomewhat indistinctly at first, a thin red line run- 
ning obliquely across the floor from the direction of 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


11 


fche sitting-room and ending near the stove, where 
it had formed a small pool. Mary stopped short, 
scarcely conscious why, and peered instinctively 
into the adjoining apartment. Then, with a smoth- 
ered cry, she let fall the milk-can, and a dozen 
white rivulets, in strange contrast to that one dark 
red line which first startled her, went meandering 
over the kitchen floor. With her eyes riveted 
upon some object in the next room, the girl re- 
treated backward slowly and heavily dragging one 
foot after the other, until she reached the scullery- 
door; then she turned swiftly, and plunged into 
the street. 

Twenty minutes later, every man, woman, and 
child in Stillwater knew that old Mr. Shackford 
had been murdered. - 

Mary Hennessey had to tell her story a hundred 
times during the morning, for each minute brought 
to Michael’s tenement a fresh listener hungry for 
the details at first hand. 

How was it, Molly ? Tell a body, dear ! ” 

“ Don’t be asking me ! ” cried Molly, pressing 
her palms to her eyes as if to shut out the sight, 
but taking all the while a secret creepy satisfaction 
in living the scene over again. It was kinder dark 
in the other room, and there he was, laying in hia 
Qight-gownd, with his face turned towards me, so, 


12 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


looking mighty severe-like, jest as if he was a-gomg 
to say, ‘ It ’s late with the milk ye are, ye hussy I 
— a way he had of spaking.” 

“ But he did n’t spake, Molly darlin’ ? ” 

Niver a word. He was stone dead, don’t you 
see. It was that still you could hear me heart beat, 
saving there was n’t a drop of beat in it. I let go 
the can, sure, and then I backed out, with me eye 
on ’im all the while, afeard to death that he would 
up and spake them words.” 

The pore child ! for the likes of her to be 
wakin’ up a murthered man in the mornin’ ! ” 

There was little or no work done that day in 
Stillwater outside the mills, and they were not run- 
ning full handed. A number of men from the Mi- 
antowona Iron Works and Slocum’s Yard — Slocum 
employed some seventy or eighty hands — lounged 
about the streets in their blouses, or stood inj^nots 
in front of the tavern, smoking short ^^clay pipes. 
Not an urchin put in an appearance atjfelie small red 
brick building on the turnpike. Pinkham, the 
Bchool-m aster, waited an hour for the recusants, 
then turned the key in the lock and went home. ^ 
Dragged-looking women, with dishcloth or dust- 
pan in hand, stood in door-ways or leaned fr^i win- 
lows, talking in subdued voices with neighbors on 
she curb-stone. In a hundred far-away cities th« 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY, 13 

news of the suburban tragedy had already been 
read and forgotten ; but here the horror stayed. 

There was a constantly changing crowd gathered 
in front of the house in Welch’s Court. An inquest 
was being held in the room adjoining the kitchen. 
The court, which ended at the gate of the cottage, 
was fringed for several yards on each side by rows 
of squalid, wondering children, who understood it 
that Coroner Whidden was literally to sit on the 
dead body, — Mr. Whidden, a limp, inoffensive lit- 
tle man, who would not have dared to sit down on 
a fly. He had passed, pallid and perspiring, to the 
scene of his perfunctory duties. 

The result of the investigation was awaited with 
feverish impatience by the people outside. Mr. 
Shackford had not been a popular man; he had 
been a hard, avaricious, passionate man, holding his 
own way remorselessly. He had been the reverse 
of popular, but he had long been a prominent char- 
acter in Stillwater, because of his wealth, his end- 
less lawsuits, and his eccentricity, an illustration of 
which was his persistence in living entirely alone in 
isolated and dreary old house, that was hence- 
forth to be inhabited by his shadow. Not his 
shadow alone, however, for it was now remembered 
that the pr>emises were already held in fee by 
another phantasmal tenant. At a period long an- 


14 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


fcerior to this, one Lydia Sloper, a widow, had died 
an unexplained death under that same roof. The 
coincidence struck deeply into the imaginative por- 
tion of Stillwater. The widow Sloper and old 
Shackford have made a match of it,” remarked u 
local humorist, in a grimmer vein than customary. 
Two ghosts had now set up housekeeping, as it 
were, in the stricken mansion, and what might not 
be looked for in the way of spectral progeny ! 

It appeared to the crowd in the lane that the 
jury were unconscionably long in arriving at a de- 
cision, and when the decision was at length reached 
it gave but moderate satisfaction. After a spend- 
thrift waste of judicial mind the jury had decided 
that the death of Lemuel Shackford was caused 
by a blow on the left temple, inflicted with some 
instrument not discoverable, in the hands of some 
person or persons unknown.” 

‘‘We knew that before,” grumbled a voice in the 
crowd, when, to relieve public suspense. Lawyer 
Perkins — a long, lank man, with stringy black 
hair — announced the verdict from the doorstep. 

The theory of suicide had obtained momentary 
credence early in the morning, and one or two still 
clung to it with the tenacity that characterizes 
persons who entertain few ideas. To accept thi» 
theory it was necessary to believe that Mr. Shack 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


15 


ford had ingeniously hidden the weapon after strik- 
ing himself dead with a single blow. No, ft was 
not suicide. So far from intending to take his ovv^n 
life, Mr. Shackford, it appeared, had made rather 
careful preparations to live that day. The break- 
fast-table had been laid over night, the coals left 
ready for kindling in the Franklin stove, and a ket- 
tle, filled with water to be heated for his tea or 
coffee, stood on the hearth. 

Two facts had sharply demonstrated themselves : 
first, that Mr. Shackford had been murdered ; and, 
second, that the spur to the crime had been the 
possession of a sum of money, which the deceased 
was supposed to keep in a strong-box in his bedroom. 
The padlock had been wrenched open, and the less 
valuable contents of the chest, chiefly papers, scat- 
tered over the carpet. A memorandum among the 
papers seemed to specify the res23ective sums in 
notes and gold that had been deposited in the box. 
A document of some kind had been torn into mi- 
nute pieces and thrown into the waste-basket. On 
close scrutiny a word or two here and there re- 
vealed the fact that the document was of a legal 
character. The fragments were put into an envel- 
ope and given in charge of Mr. Shackford’s lawyer, 
who placed seals on that and on the drawers of an 
escritoire which stood in the corner and contained 
other manuscript. 


16 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


The instrument with which the fatal blow had 
been dealt — for the autopsy showed that there had 
been but one blow — was not only not discoverable, 
but the fashion of it defied conjecture. The shape 
of the wound did not indicate the use of any im- 
plement known to the jurors, several of whom were 
skilled machinists. The wound was an inch and 
three quarters in length and very deep at the ex- 
tremities ; in the middle it scarcely penetrated to 
the cranium. So peculiar a cut could not have been 
produced with the claw part of a hammer, because 
the claw is always curved, and the incision was 
straight. A flat claw, such as is used^ in opening 
packing-cases, was suggested. A collection of the 
several sizes manufactured was procured, but none 
corresponded with the wound ; they were either too 
wide or too narrow. Moreover, the cut was as thin 
as the blade of a case-knife. 

“ That was never done by any tool in these 
parts,” declared Stevens, the foreman of the finish- 
ing shop at Slocum’s. 

The assassin or assassins had entered by the 
scullery door, the simple fastening of which, a hook 
and staple, had been broken. There were foot- 
prints in the soft clay path leading from the side 
gate to the stone step ; but Mary Hennessey had 
go confused and obliterated the outlines that now it 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


IT 


was impossible accurately to measure them. A 
half-burned match was found under the sink, — evi- 
dently thrown there by the burglars. It was of a 
kind known as the safety-match, which can be ig- 
nited only by friction on a strip of chemically pre- 
pared paper glued to the box. As no box of thia 
description was discovered, and as all the other 
matches in the house were of a different make, the 
charred splinter was preserved. The most minute 
examination failed to show more than this. The 
last time Mr. Shackford had been seen alive was at 
six o’clock the previous evening. 

Who had done the deed ? 

Tramps ! answered Stillwater, with one voice, 
though Stillwater lay somewhat out of the natural 
highway, and the tramp — that bitter blossom of 
civilization whose seed was blown to us from over 
seas — was not then so common by the New Eng- 
land roadsides as he became five or six years later. 
But it was intolerable not to have a theory ; it was 
that or none, for conjecture turned to no one in the 
village. To be sure, Mr. Shackford had been in 
litigation with several of the corporations, and had 
had legal quarrels with more than one of his neigh- 
bors ^ but Mr. Shackford had never oeen victorious 
in any of these contests, and the incentive of re* 


18 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


veiige was wanting to explain the crime. Besides^ 
it was so clearly robbery. 

Though the gathering around the Shackford 
house had reduced itself to half a dozen idlers, and 
the less frequented streets had resumed their nor- 
mal aspect of dullness, there was a strange, electric 
quality in the atmosphere. The community was in 
that state of suppressed agitation and suspicion 
which no word adequately describes. The slightest 
circumstance would have swayed it to the belief in 
any man’s guilt ; and, indeed, there were men in 
Stillwater quite capable of disposing of a fellow- 
creature for a much smaller reward than Mr. Shack- 
ford had held out. In spite of the tramp theory, a 
harmless tin-peddler, who had not passed through 
the place for weeks, was dragged from his glitter- 
ing cart that afternoon, as he drove smilingly into 
town, and would have been roughly handled if Mr. 
Richard Shackford, a cousin of the deceased, had 
not interfered. 

As the day wore on, the excitement deepened in 
intensity, though the expression of it became nearly 
reticent. It was noticed that the lamps throughout 
the village were lighted an hour earlier than usual. 
A sense of insecurity settled upon Stillwater with 
the falling twilight, — that nameless apprehension 
which is possibly more trying to the neives than 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


19 


fcaiigible danger. When a man is smitten inexplic- 
ably, as if by a bodiless hand stretched out of a 
cloud, — when the red slayer yanishes like a mist 
and leaves no faintest trace of his identity, — the 
mystery shrouding the deed presently becomes more 
appalling than the deed itself. There is something 
paralyzing in the thought of an invisible hand some- 
where ready to strike at your life, or at some life 
dearer than your own. Whose hand, and where is 
it? Perhaps it passes you your coffee at break 
fast ; perhaps you have hired it to shovel the snow 
off your sidewalk ; perhaps it has brushed against 
you in the crowd ; or may be you have dropped a 
coin into the fearful palm at a street corner. Ah 
the terrible unseen hand that stabs your imagina- 
tion, — this immortal part of you which is a hun- 
dred times more sensitive than your poor perish- 
able body ! 

In the midst of situations the most solemn and 
tragic there often falls a light purely farcical in its 
incongruity. Such a gleam was unconsciously pro- 
jected upon the present crisis by Mr. Bodge, better 
known in the village as Father Bodge. Mr. Bodge 
was stone deaf, naturally stupid, and had been 
nearly moribund for thirty j^ears with asthma. Just 
before night-fall he had crawled, in his bewildered, 
wheezy fashion, down to the tavern, where he found 


20 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


a sombre crowd in the bar-room. Mr. Bodge or- 
dered his mug of beer, and sat sipping it, glancing 
meditatively from time to time over the pewter rim 
at the mute assembly. Suddenly he broke out : 
“ S’pose you ’ve heerd that old Shackford ’s ben 
murdered.” 

So the sun went down on Stillwater. Again the 
great wall of pines and hemlocks made a gloom 
against the sky. The moon rose from behind the 
tree-tops, frosting their ragged edges, and then 
sweeping up to the zenith hung serenely above the 
world, as if there were never a crime, or a tear, or 
a heart-break in it all. 


III. 


On the afternoon of the following day Mr. Shack- 
ford was duly buried. The funeral, under the direc- 
tion of Mr. Kichard Shackford, who acted as chief 
mourner and was sole mourner by right of kinship, 
took place in profound silence. The carpenters, 
who had lost a day on Bishop’s new stables, inter- 
mitted their sawing and hammering while the serv- 
ices were in progress ; the steam was shut off in 
the iron-mills, and no clinking of the chisel was 
heard in the marble yard for an hour, during which 
many of the shops had their shutters up. Then, 
when all was over, the imprisoned fiend in the boil- 
ers gave a piercing shriek, the leather bands slipped 
on the revolving drums, the spindles leaped into 
life again, and the old order of things was rein- 
stated, — outwardly, but not in effect. 

In general, when the grave closes over a man his 
career is ended. But Mr. Shackford was never so 
much alive as after they had buried him. Never 
before had he filled so large a place in the public 
%ye. Though invisible, he sat at every fireside. 


22 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Until the manner of his death had been made clear, 
his ubiquitous presence was not to be exorcised, 
On the morning of the memorable day a reward of 
one hundred dollars — afterwards increased to five 
hundred, at the instance of Mr. Shackford’s cousin 
— had been offered by the board of selectmen foi 
the arrest and conviction of the guilty party. Be- 
yond this and the unsatisfactory inquest, the au- 
thorities had done nothing, and were plainly not 
equal to the situation. 

When it was stated, the night of the funeral, 
that a professional person was coming to Stillwater 
to look into the case, the announcement was re- 
ceived with a breath of relief^Jlf^ 

The person thus vaguely described appeared on 
the spot the next morning. To mention the name 
of Edward Taggett is to mention a name well 
known to the detective force of the great city lying 
sixty miles southwest of Stillwater. Mr. Taggett’s 
arrival sent such a thrill of expectancy through the 
village that Mr. Leonard Tappleton, whose obse- 
quies occurred this day, made his exit nearly unob- 
served. Yet there was little in Mr. Taggett’s phys- 
ical aspect calculated to stir either expectation or 
enthusiasm : a slender man of about twenty-six, 
but not looking it, with overhanging brown mus» 
tache, sparse side-whiskers, eyes of no definite color 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


23 


and faintly accentuated eyebrows. He spoke pre- 
cisely, and with a certain unembarrassed hesitation, 
as persons do who have two thoughts to one word, 
— if there are such persons. You might have 
taken him for a physician, or a journalist, or the 
secretary of an insurance company ; but you would 
never have supposed him the man who had disen- 
tangled the complicated threads of the great Bar- 
nabee Bank defalcation. 

Stillwater’s confidence, which had risen into the 
nineties, fell to zero at sight of him. “ Is that 
Taggett ? ” they asked. That was Taggett ; and 
presently his influence began to be felt like a sea- 
turn. The three Dogberry s of the watch were dis- 
patched on secret missions, and within an hour it 
was ferreted out that a man in a cart had been 
seen driving furiously up the turnpike the morning 
after the murder. This was an agricultural district, 
the road led to a market town, and teams going 
by in the early dawn were the rule and not the ex- 
ception ; but on that especial morning a furiously 
driven cart was significant. Jonathan Beers, who 
farmed the Jenks land, had heard the wheels and 
caught an indistinct glimpse of the vehicle as he 
was feeding the cattle, but with a reticence purely 
rustic had not been moved to mention the circum- 
stance before. 


24 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ Taggett has got a clew,” said Stillwater under 
its breath. 

By noon Taggett had got the man, cart and all. 
But it was only Blufton’s son Tom, of South Mill- 
ville, who had started in hot haste that particular 
morning to secure medical service for his wife, of 
which she had sorely stood in need, as two tiny 
girls in a willow cradle in South Millville now bore 
testimony. 

‘‘I haven’t been cutting down the population 
said Blufton, with his wholesome laugh. 

Thomas Blufton was well known and esteemed 
in Stillwater, but if the crime had fastened itself 
upon him it would have given something like popu- 
lar satisfaction. 

In the course of the ensuing forty-eight hours 
four or five tramps were overhauled as having been 
in the neighborhood at the time of the tragedy; 
but they each had a clean story, and were let go. 
Then one Durgin, a workman at Slocum’s Yard, 
was called upon to explain some half- washed-out 
red stains on his overalls, which he did. He had 
tightened the hoops on a salt-pork barrel for Mr. 
Sn?aekford several days previous ; the red paint on 
the head of the barrel was fresh, and had come off 
on his clothes. Dr. Weld examined the spots under 
a microscope, and pronounced them paint. It was 


THE STILLWATER 


manifest that Mr. Taggett meant to go to the bot- 
tom of things. 

The bar-room of the Stillwater hotel was a cen- 
tre of interest these nights ; not only the bar-room 
proper, but the adjoining apartment, where the 
more exclusive guests took their seltzer-water and 
looked over the metropolitan newspapers. Twice a 
week a social club met here, having among its mem- 
bers Mr. Craggie, the postmaster, who was sup- 
posed to have a great political future, Mr. Pink- 
ham, Lawyer Perkins, Mr. Whidden, and other 
respectable persons. The room was at all times in 
some sense private, with a separate entrance from 
the street, though another door, which usually stood 
open, connected it with the main saloon. In this 
was a long mahogany counter, one section of which 
was covered with a sheet of zinc perforated like a 
sieve, and kept constantly bright by restless cara- 
vans of lager-beer glasses. Directly behind that 
end of the counter stood a Gothic brass-mounted 
beer-pump, at whose faucets Mr. Snelling, the land- 
lord, flooded you five or six mugs in the twinkling 
of an eye, and raised the vague expectation that he 
was about to grind out some popular operatic air. 
At the left of the pump stretched a narrow mirror, 
reflecting the gay ly -colored wine-glasses and decan- 
ters which stood on each other’s shoulders, and held 


26 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


up lemons, and performed various acrobatic feats 
on a shelf in front of it. 

The fourth night after the funeral of Mr. Sliacfc 
ford, a dismal southeast storm caused an unusual 
influx of idlers in both rooms. With the raip 
splashing against the casements and the wind slam 
ming the blinds, the respective groups sat discuss- 
ing in a desultory way the only topic which could 
be discussed at present. There had been a general 
strike among the workmen a fortnight before ; but 
even that had grown cold as a topic. 

That was hard on Tom Blufton,” said Stevens, 
eniptying the ashes out of his long-stemmed clay 
pipe, and refilling the bowl with cut cavendish from 
a jar on a shelf over his head. 

Michael Hennessey set down his beer-mug with 
an air of argumentative disgust, and drew one 
sleeve across his glistening beard. 

“ Stavens, you ’ve as many minds as a weather- 
cock, jist ! Did n’t ye say yerself it looked mighty 
black for the lad when he was took ? ” > 

“ I might have said something of the sort,” Ste- 
vens admitted reluctantly, after a pause. ‘‘His 
driving round at daybreak with an empty cart did 
have an ugly look at first.” 

“Indade. then.” 

“ Not to anybody who knew Tom Blufton,” in- 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


27 


lerrupted Samuel Piggott, Blufton’s brother-in-law. 

The boy has n’t a bad streak in him. It was an 
outrage. Might as well have suspected Parson 
Langly or Father O’Meara.” 

If this kind of thing goes on,” remarked a man 
in the corner with a patch over one eye, “ both ol 
them reverend gents will be hauled up, I should n’t 
wonder.” 

That ’s so, Mr. Peters,” responded Durgin. “ If 
my respectability did n’t save me, who ’s safe ? ” 

Durgin is talking about his respectability 1 
He ’s joking.” 

Look here, Dexter,” said Durgin, turning 
quickly on the speaker, ‘‘ when I want to joke, I 
talk about your intelligence.” 

“ What kind of man is Taggett, anyhow ? ’ 
asked Piggott. ‘‘ You saw him, Durgin.” 

I believe he was at Justice Beemis’s office the 
day Blufton and I was there ; but I did n’t make 
him out in the crowd. Should n’t know him from 
Adam.” 

‘‘ Stillwater ’s a healthy place for tramps jest 
about this time,” suggested somebody. Three on 
eni snaked in to-day” 

‘‘ I think, gentlemen, that Mr. Taggett is on the 
right track there,” observed Mr. Snelling, in the act 
dI mixing another Old Holland for Mr. Peters 


28 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ Not too sweet, you said ? I feel it in my bones 
that it was a tramp, and that Mr. Taggett will 
bring him yet.” 

He won’t find him on the highway yonder,” 
said a tall, swarthy man named Torrini, an Italian. 
Nationalities clash in Stillwater. ‘‘ That tramp hi 
a thousand miles from here.” 

“ So he is if he has any brains under his hat,” 
returned Snelling. “ But they ’re on the lookout 
for him. The minute he pawns anything, he ’s 
gone.” 

‘‘ Can’t put up greenbacks or gold, can he ? He 
did n’t take nothing else,” interposed Bishop, the 
veterinary surgeon. 

“ No jewelry nor nothing ? ” 

‘‘ There, was n’t none, as I understand it,” said 
Bishop, except a silver watch. That was all snug 
under the old man’s piller.” 

“ Wanter know ! ” ejaculated Jonathan Beers. 

‘‘ I opine, Mr. Craggie,” said the school-master, 
standing in the inner room with a rolled-up file of 
the Daily Advertiser in his hand, “ that the person 
who — who removed our worthy townsman will 
aever be discovered.” 

I should n’t like to go quite so far as that, sir,” 
answered Mr. Craggie, with that diplomatic suav- 
ity which leads to postmasterships and seats in the 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


29 


General Court, and lias even been known to oil a 
dull fellow’s way into Congress. “ I cannot take 
quite so hopeless a view of it. There are difficul- 
ties, but they must be overcome, Mr. Pinkham, and 
I think they will be.” 

“ Indeed, I hope so,” returned the school-master* 

But there are cases — are there not? — in which 
the — the problem, if I may so designate it, has 
never been elucidated, and the persons who under- 
took it have been obliged to go to the foot, so to 
speak.” 

Ah, yes, there are such cases, certainly. There 
was the Burdell mystery in New York, and, later, 
the Nathan affair — By the way, I ’ve satisfactory 
theories of my own touching both. The police were 
baffled, and remain so. But, my dear sir, observe 
for a moment the difference.” 

Mr. Pinkham rested one finger on the edge of a 
little round table, and leaned forward in a respect- 
ful attitude to observe the difference. 

“ Those crimes were committed in a vast metrop- 
olis affording a thousand chances for escape, as well 
as offering a thousand temptations to the lawless. 
But we are a limited community. We have no 
professional murderers among us. The deed which 
has stirred society to its utmost depths was plainly 
done by some wayfaring amateur. Remorse has 


30 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


already seized upon him, if the police have n’t. Foi 
the time being he escapes ; but he is bound to be- 
tray himself sooner or later. If the right steps are 
taken, — and I have myself the greatest confidence 
in Mr. Taggett, — the guilty party can scarcely fail 
to be brought to the bar of justice, if he does n’t 
bring himself there.” 

“ Indeed, indeed, I hope so,” repeated Mr. Pink- 
ham. 

The investigation is being carried on very 
closely.” 

‘‘ Too closely,” suggested the school-master. 

“ Oh dear, no,” murmured Mr. Craggie. ‘‘ The 
strictest secrecy is necessary in affairs of this deli- 
cate nature. If Tom, Dick, and Harry were taken 
behind the scenes,” he added, with the air of not 
wishing to say too much, “ the bottom would drop 
out of everything.” 

Mr. Pinkham shrunk from commenting on a dis- 
aster like that, and relapsed into silence. Mr. 
Craggie, with his thumbs in the arm-holes of his 
waistcoat, and his legs crossed in an easy, senate 
rial fashion, leaned back in the chair and smiled 
blandly. 

I don’t suppose there ’s nothing new, boys ! ” 
exclaimed a fat, florid man, bustling in good-nat- 
uredly at the public entrance, and leaving a straight 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 31 

wet trail on the sanded floor from the threshold to 
the polished mahogany counter. Mr. Willson was 
a local humorist of the Falstaffian stripe, though 
not so much witty in himself as the cause of wit in 
others. 

No, Jemmy, there is n’t anything new,” re- 
sponded Dexter. 

I suppose you did n’t hear that the ole man 
done somethin’ handsome for me in his last will 
and testy ment.” 

“No, Jemmy, I don’t think he has made any 
provision whatever for an almshouse.” 

“ Sorry to hear that, Dexter,” said Willson, ab- 
Borbedly chasing a bit of lemon peel in his glass 
with the spoon handle, “ for there is n’t room for 
us all up at the town-farm. How’s your grand- 
mother ? Finds it tol’rably comfortable ? ” 

They are a primitive, candid people in their 
hours of unlaced social intercourse in Stillwater. 
This delicate tu quoque was so far from wounding 
Dexter that he replied carelessly, — 

“Well, only so so. The old woman complains 
of too much chicken-saUid, and hot-house grapes all 
the year round.” 

“ Mr. Shackford must have left a large property,’ 
observed Mr. Ward, of the firm of Ward & Lock, 
glancing up from the columns of the Stillwater 


B2 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Gazette. The remark was addressed to Lawyer 
Perkins, who had just joined the group in the read- 
ing-room. 

“ Fairly large,” replied that gentleman crisply. 

‘‘ Any public bequests? ” 

“ None to speak of.” 

Mr. Craggie smiled vaguely. 

You see,” said Lawyer Perkins, “ there ’s a will 
and no will, — that is to say, the fragments of what 
is supposed to be a will were found, and we are try- 
ing to put the pieces together. It is doubtful if we 
can do it ; it is doubtful if we can decipher it after 
we have done it ; and if we decipher it it is a ques- 
tion whether the document is valid or not.” 

“ That is a masterly exposition of the dilemma, 
Mr. Perkins,” said the school-master warmly. 

Mr. Perkins had spoken in his court-room tone 
of voice, with one hand thrust into his frilled shirt- 
bosom. He removed this hand for a second, as he 
gravely bowed to Mr. Pinkham. 

‘‘Nothing could be clearer,” said Mr. Ward. 
“ In case the paper is worthless, what then ? I am 
not asking you in your professional capacity,” he 
added hastily ; for Lawyer Perkins had been known 
to send in a bill on as slight a provocation as Mr 
Ward’s. 

“ That ’s a point. The next of kin has his 
claims.” 


THE STILLWATE 


“ My friend Shackford, ol soi % - 

Craggie. Admirable young man I — one of my 
warmest supporters.” 

“ He is the only heir at law so far as we know,” 


said Mr. Perkins. 


‘‘ Oh,” said Mr. Craggie, reflecting. ‘‘ The late 
Mr. Shackford might have had a family in Timbuc- 
too or the Sandwich Islands.” 

“ That ’s another point.” 

“ The fact would be a deuced unpleasant point 
for young Shackford to i^n against,” said Mr. 



Ward. 


“ Exactly.” 


“ If Mr. Lemuel Shac^ord,” remarked Coroner 


Whidden, softly joining j^e conversation to which 


he had been listening in his timorous, apologetic 
manner, “ had chanced, in the course of his early 
sea-faring days, to form any ties of an unhappy 
complexion ” — 

‘‘ Complexion is good,” murmured Mr. Craggie. 
‘‘ Some Hawaiian lady I ” 

— “ perhaps that would be a branch of the case 
worth investigating in connection with the homi- 
cide. A discarded wife, or a disowned son, burn- 
ing with a sense of wrong ” — 

Really, Mr. Whidden ! ” interrupted Lawyer 
Perkins witheringly, ‘‘it is bad enough for my 


a 


34 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY, 


client to lose liis life, without having his reputation 
filched away from him.’’ 

“I — I will explain I I was merely suppos- 
mg — 

“ The law never supposes, sir ! ” 

This threw Mr. Whidden into great mental con- 
fusion. As coroner was he not an integral part of 
the law, and when, in his official character, he sup- 
posed anything was not that a legal supposition? 
But was he in his official character now, sitting 
with a glass of lemonade at his elbow in the read- 
ing-room of the Stillwater hotel ? Was he, or was 
he not, a coroner all the time ? Mr. Whidden 
stroked an isolated tuft of hair growing low on the 
middle of his forehead, and glared mildly at Mr. 
Perkins. 

Young Shackford has gone to New York, I un- 
•wstand,” said Mr. Ward, breaking the silence. 

Mr. Perkins nodded. ‘‘Went this morning to 
look after the real-estate interests there. It will 
probably keep him a couple of weeks, — the longer 
the better. He was of no use here. Lemuel’s 
death was a great shock to him, or rather the man- 
ner of it was.” 

“ That shocked every one. They were first 
.ousins, weren’t they?” Mr. Ward was a com 
paiatively new resident in Stillwater. 


THE STILLWATER 


^ ^.GLi : 

“ First cousins,” replied Lawyer I'erkins ; •• dui 
iey were never very intimate, you know.” 

“ I imagine nobody was ever very intimate with 
Mr. Shackford.” 

“ My client was somewhat peculiar in his frieni 
ships.” 

This was stating it charitably, for Mr. Perkina 
knew, and every one present knew, that Lemuel 
Shackford had not had the shadow of a friend in 
Stillwater, unless it was his cousin Richard. 

A cloud of mist and rain was blown into the bar- 
room as the street door stood open for a second to 
admit a dripping figure from the outside darkness. 

‘‘ What ’s blowed down ? ” asked Durgin, turn- 
ing round on his stool and sending up a ring of 
smoke which uncurled itself with difficulty in the 
dense atmosphere. 

“ It ’s only some of Jeff Stavers’s nonsense.” 

“ No nonsense at all,” said the new-comer, as he 
shook the heavy beads of rain from his felt hat. 
“I was passing by Welch’s Court — it’s as black 
as pitch out, fellows — when slap went something 
against my shoulder ; something like wet wings. 
Well, I was scared. It ’s a bat, says I. But the 
thing didn’t fly off ; it was still clawing at my 
shoulder. I put up my hand, and I ’ll be shot if it 
was n’t the foremast, jib-sheet and all, of the old 


86 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


weather-cock on the north gable of the Shackford 
house ! Here you are I ” and the speaker tossed the 
broken mast, with the mimic sails dangling from it, 
into Durgin’s lap. 

A dead silence followed, for there was felt to be 
Bomething weirdly significant in the incident. 

That’s kinder omernous,” said Mr. Peters, in* 
fcerrogatively. 

“ Ominous of what ? ” asked Durgin, lifting the 
wet mass from his knees and dropping it on the 
floor. 

Well, sorter queer, then.” 

“ Where does the queer come in ? ” inquired 
Stevens, gravely. “ I don’t know ; but I ’m hit 
by it.” 

Come, boys, don’t crowd a feller,” said Mr. 
Peters, getting restive. “ I don’t take the contract 
to explain the thing. But it does seem some way 
droll that the old schooner should be wrecked so 
Boon after what has happened to the old skipper. 
If you don’t see it, or sense it, I don’t insist. 
What ’s yours, Denyven ? ” 

The person addressed as Denyven promptly re- 
plied, with a fine sonorous English accent, “ A mug 
of ’alf an’ ’alf, — with a head on it, Snelling.” 

At the same moment Mr. Craggie, in the innei 
icom, was saying to the school-master, — 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


37 


*^I must really take issue with you there, Mr. 
Pinkham. I admit there ’s a good deal in spiritual 
ism which we have n’t got at yet ; the science is in 
its infancy ; it is still attached to the bosom of specu- 
lation. It is a beautiful science, that of psycholog- 
ical phenomena, and the spiritualists will yet be- 
come an influential class of ” — Mr. Craggie was 
going to say voters, but glided over it — “ persons. 
I believe in clairvoyance myself to a large extent. 
Before my appointment to the post-office I had it 
very strong. I ’ve no doubt that in the far future 
this mysterious factor will be made great use of in 
criminal cases; but at present I should resort to 
it only in the last extremity, — the very last ex- 
tremity, Mr. Pinkham I ” 

“ Oh, of course,” said the school-master depre- 
catingly. ‘‘ I threw it out only as the merest 
suggestion. I shouldn’t think of — of — you un- 
derstand me ? ” 

“Is it beyond the dreams of probability,” said 
Mr. Craggie, appealing to Lawyer Perkins, * that 
clairvoyants may eventually be introduced into 
cases in our courts ? ” 

“They are now,” said Mr. Perkins, with a snort, 
— “ the police bring ’em in.” 

Mr. Craggie flnished the remainder of his glass 
of sherry in silence, and presently rose to go. Cor* 


38 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


oner Whidden and Mr. Ward had already gone 
The guests in the public room were thinning out 
a gloom, indefinable and shapeless like the night, 
seemed to have fallen upon the few that lingered. 
At a somewhat earlier hour than usual the gas was 
shut off in the Stillwater hotel. 

In the lonely house in Welch’s Court a light was 
still burning. 


IV. 


A SORELY perplexed man sat there, bending over 
his papers by the lamp-light. Mr. Taggett had 
established himself at the Shackford house on his 
arrival, preferring it to the hotel, where he would 
have been subjected to the curiosity of the guests 
and to endless annoyances. Up to this moment, 
perhaps not a dozen persons in the place had had 
more than a passing glimpse of him. He was a very 
busy man, working at his desk from morning until 
night, and then taking only a brief walk, for exer- 
cise, in some unfrequented street. His meals were 
sent in from the hotel to the Shackford house, 
where the constables reported to him, and where he 
held protracted conferences with Justice Beemis, 
Coroner Whidden, Lawyer Perkins, and a few 
others, and declined to be interviewed by the local 
editor. 

To the outside eye that weather-stained, faded old 
house appeared a throbbing seat of esoteric intelli- 
gence. It was as if a hundred invisible magnetic 
threads converged to a focus under that roof and 


40 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


incessantly clicked out the most startling informa- 
tion, — information which was never by any chance 
allowed to pass beyond the charmed circle. As 
nothing came of it all, this secrecy grew exasperat- 
ing. The pile of letters which the mail brought to 
Mr. Taggett every morning — chiefly anonymous 
suggestions, and offers of assistance from lunatics 
in remote cities — was enough in itself to exasper. 
ate a community. 

Covertly at first, and then openly, Stillwater be- 
gan seriously to question Mr. Taggett’s method of 
working up the case. The Gazette, in a double- 
leaded leader, went so far as to compare him to a 
bird with fine feathers and no song, and to suggest 
that perhaps the bird might have sung if the in- 
ducement offered had been more substantial. A 
singer of Mr. Taggett’s plumage was not to be 
caught by such chaff as five hundred dollars. Hav- 
ing killed his man, the editor proceeded to remark 
that he would suspend judgment until next week. 

As if to make perfect the bird comparison, Mr. 
Taggett, after keeping the public in suspense for 
six days and nights, abruptly flew away, with all 
the little shreds and straws of evidence he had 
picked up, to build his speculative nest elsewhere. 

The defection of Mr. Taggett caused a mild 
Danic among a certain portion of the inhabitanta 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


41 


who were not reassured by the statement in the 
Gazette that the case would now be placed in the ' 
proper hands, — the hands of the county constab- 
ulary. “ Within a few days,” said the editor in 
conclusion, the matter will undoubtedly be cleared 
up. At present we cannot say more ; ” and it 
would have puzzled him very much to do so. 

A week passed, and no fresh light was thrown 
upon the catastrophe, nor did anything occur to 
ruffle the usual surface of life in the village. A man 
— it was Torrini, the Italian — got hurt in Dana’s 
iron foundry ; one of Blufton’s twin girls died ; 
and Mr. Slocum took on a new hand from out of 
town. That was all. Stillwater was the Still- 
water of a year ago, with always the exception 
of that shadow lying upon it, and the fact that 
small boys who had kindling to get in were care- 
ful to get it in before nightfall. It would appear 
that the late Mr. Shackford had acquired a habit 
of lingering around wood-piles after dark, and also 
of stealing into bed-chambers, where little children 
were obliged to draw the sheets over their heads in 
order not to see him. 

The action of the county constabulary had proved 
quite as mysterious and quite as barren of result 
fts Mr. Taggett’s had been. They had worn his 
mantle of secrecy, and arrested his tramps over 


i2 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Another week dragged by, and the editorial pre- 
diction seemed as far as ever from fulfillment. But 
on the afternoon which closed that fortnight a very 
singular thing did happen. Mr. Slocum was sitting 
alone in his office, which occupied the whole of a 
small building at the right of the main gate to the 
marble works, when the door behind him softly 
opened and a young man, whose dress covered with 
stone-dust indicated his vocation, appeared on the 
threshold. He hesitated a second, and then stepped 
into the room. Mr. Slocum turned round with a 
swift, apprehensive air. 

“ You gave me a start I I believe I have n’t any 
nerves left. Well ? ” 

“ Mr. Slocum, I have found the man.” 

The proprietor of the marble yard half rose 
from the desk in his agitation. 

“ Who is it ? ” he asked beneath his breath. 

The same doubt or irresolution which had checked 
the workman at the threshold seemed again to have 
taken possession of him. It was fully a moment 
before he gained the mastery over himself; but 
the mastery was complete ; for he leaned forward 
gravely, almost coldly, and pronounced two words. 
A quick pallor overspread Mr. Slocum’s features. 

“ Good God ! ” he exclaimed, sinking back into 
ihe chair. “ Are you mad 1 ” 


V. 


The humblest painter of real life, if he could 
have his desire, would select a picturesque back- 
ground for his figures; but events have an inex- 
orable fashion of choosing their own landscape. In 
the present instance it is reluctantly conceded that 
there are few uglier or more commonplace towns 
in New England than Stillwater, — a straggling, 
overgrown village, with ^ whose rural aspects are 
curiously blended something of the grimness and 
squalor of certain shabby city neighborhoods. Be- 
ing of comparatively recent date, the place has 
none of those colonial associations which, like 
sprigs of lavender in an old chest of drawers, are 
a saving grace to other quite as dreary nooks and 
corners. 

Here and there at what is termed the West End 
is a neat brick mansion with garden attached, where 
nature asserts herself in dahlias and china-asters ; 
but the houses are mostly frame houses that have 
taken a prevailing dingy tint from the breath of 
the tall chimneys which dominate the village. The 


44 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


sidewalks in the more aristocratic quarter are eov 
ered with a thin, elastic paste of asphalte, worn 
down to the gravel in patches, and emitting in the 
heat of the day an astringent, bituminous odor. 
The population is chiefly of the rougher sort, such 
as breeds in the shadow of foundries and factories • 
and if the Protestant pastor and the fatherly Cath* 
olic priest, whose respective lots are cast there, have 
sometimes the sense of being missionaries dropped 
in the midst of a purely savage community, the de 
lusion is not wholly unreasonable. 

The irregular heaps of scoria that have accumu- 
lated in the vicinity of the iron works give the 
place an illusive air of antiquity ; but it is neither 
ancient nor picturesque. The oldest and most pic- 
torial thing in Stillwater is probably the marble 
yard, around three sides of which the village may 
be said to have sprouted up rankly, bearing here 
and there an industrial blossom in the shape of an 
iron-mill or a cardigan-jacket manufactory. Row- 
land Slocum, a man of considerable refinement, 
great kindness of heart, and no force, inherited the 
yard from his father, and at the period this narra- 
tive opens (the summer of 187-) was its sole pro- 
prietor and nominal manager, the actual manager 
being Richard Shackford, a prospective partner in 
cne Dusiness and the betrothed of Mr. Slocum’g 
iamrhter Marov 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY, 


45 


Forty years ago every tenth person in Stillwater 
was either a Shackford or a Slocum. Twenty years 
later both names were nearly extinct there. That 
fatality which seems to attend certain New Eng- 
land families had stripped every leaf but two from 
the Shackford branch. These were Lemuel Shack- 
ford, then about forty-six, and Richard Shackford, 
aged four. Lemuel Shackford had laid up a com- 
petency as ship-master in the New York and Cal- 
cutta trade, and in 1862 had returned to his native 
village, where he found his name and stock repre- 
sented only by little Dick, a very cheerful orphan, 
who stared complacently with big blue eyes at fate, 
and made mud-pies in the lane whenever he could 
elude the vigilance of the kindly old woman who 
had taken him under her roof. This atom of hu- 
manity, by some strange miscalculation of nature, 
was his cousin. 

The strict devotion to his personal interests which 
had enabled Mr. Shackford to acquire a fortune thus 
early caused him to look askance at a penniless 
young kinsman with stockings down at heel, and a 
straw hat three sizes too large for him set on the 
back of his head. But Mr. Shackford was ashamed 
to leave little Dick a burden upon the hands of 
A poor woman of no relationship whatever to the 
child ; so little Dick was transferred to that do- 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


46 

jected house which has already been described, and 
was then known as the Sloper house. 

Here, for three or four years, Dick grew up, as 
neglected as a weed, and every inch as happy. It 
should be mentioned that for the first year or so a 
shock -headed Cicely from the town-farm had appar- 
ently been hired not to take care of him. But 
Dick asked nothing better than to be left to his 
own devices, which, moreover, were innocent enough. 
He would sit all day in the lane at the front gate 
pottering with a bit of twig or a case-knife in the 
soft clay. From time to time passers-by observed 
that the child was not making mud-pies, but trac- 
ing figures, comic or grotesque as might happen, 
and always quite wonderful for their lack of resem- 
blance to anything human. That patch of reddish- 
brown clay was his sole resource, his slate, his 
drawing-book, and woe to anybody who chanced to 
walk over little Dick’s arabesques. Patient and 
gentle in his acceptance of the world’s rebuffs, this 
he would not endure. He was afraid of Mr. Shack- 
ford, yet one day, when the preoccupied man hap- 
pened to trample on a newly executed hieroglyphic, 
the child rose to his feet white with rage, his fin- 
gers clenched, and such a blue fire flashing in his 
eyes that Mr. Shackford drew back aghast. 

‘‘ Why, it ’s a little devil 1 ” 


THE STILL WATEJ' TRA’ 


While Shackford junior was amusing nimselt 
with his primitive bas-reliefs, Shackford senior 
amused himself with his lawsuits. From the hour 
when he returned to the town until the end of his 
days Mr. Shackford was up to his neck in legal dif^ 
ficulties. Now he resisted a betterment assessment, 
and fought the town ; now he secured an injunc- 
tion on the Miantowona Iron Works, and fought 
the corporation. He was understood to have a per- 
petual case in equity before the Marine Court in 
New York, to which city he made frequent and 
unannounced journeys. His immediate neighbors 
stood in terror of him. He was like a duelist, on 
the alert to twist the slightest thing into a casus 
helli. The law was his rapier, his recreation, and 
he was willing to bleed for it. 

Meanwhile that fairy world of which every baby 
becomes a Columbus so soon as it is able to walk 
remained an undiscovered continent to little Dick. 
Grim life looked in upon him as he lay in the cra- 
dle. The common joys of childhood were a sealed 
volume to him. A single incident of those years 
lights up the whole situation. A vague rumor had 
been blown to Dick of a practice of hanging up 
stockings at Christmas. It struck his materialistic 
mind as rather a senseless thing to do ; but never- 
theless he resolved to try it one Christmas Eve. He 


48 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


lay awake a long while in the frosty darkness, skep- 
tically waiting for something remarkable to hap- 
pen ; once he crawled out of the cot-bed and groped 
his way to the chimney place. The next morning 
he was scarcely disappointed at finding nothing in 
the piteous little stocking, except the original holes. 

The years that stole silently over the heads of 
the old man and the young child in Welch’s Court 
brought: a period of wild prosperity to Stillwater. 
The breatn of war blew the forges to a white heat, 
and the baffling problem of the mediaeval alchemists 
was solved. The baser metals were transmuted 
into gold. A disastrous, prosperous time, with the 
air rent periodically by the cries of newsboys as 
battles were fought, and by the roll of the drum in 
the busy streets as fresh recruits were wanted. 
Glory and death to the Southward, and at the 
North pale women in black. 

All which interested Dick mighty little. After 
he had learned to read at the district school, he es- 
caped into another world. Two lights were now 
generally seen burning of a night in the Shackford 
house : one on the ground-floor where Mr. Shack- 
ford sat mouthing his contracts and mortgages, 
and weaving his webs like a great, lean, gray 
spider, and the other in the north gable, where 
Dick hung over a tattered copy of Robinson 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 49 

Crusoe by the flicker of the candle-ends which he 
had captured during the day. 

Little Dick was little Dick no more : a tall, 
heavily built blond boy, with a quiet, sweet dis- 
position, that at first offered temptations to the 
despots of the playground ; but a sudden flaring up 
once or twice of that unexpected spirit which had 
broken out in his babyhood brought him immunity 
from serious persecution. 

The boy’s home life at this time would have 
seemed pathetic to an observer, — the more pathetic, 
perhaps, in that Dick himself was not aware of its 
exceptional barrenness. The holidays that bring 
new brightness to the eyes of happier children 
were to him simply days when he did not go 
to school, and was expected to provide an extra 
quantity of kindling wood. He was housed, and 
fed, and clothed, after a fashion, but not loved. 
Mr. Shackford did not ill-treat the lad, in the sense 
of beating him ; he merely neglected him. Every 
year the man became more absorbed in his law 
cases and his money, which accumulated magically. 
He dwelt in a cloud of calculations. Though all 
his interests attached him to the material world 
bis dry attenuated body seemed scarcely a pari 
of it. 


50 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ Sliackford, what are you going to do with that 
Bcapegrace of yours ? ” 

It was Mr. Leonard Tappleton who ventured the 
question. Few persons dared to interrogate Mr. 
Shackford on his private affairs. 

“ I am going to make a lawyer of him,” said Mr. 
Shackford, crackling his finger-joints like stiff 
parchment. 

You could n’ do better. You ought to have an 
attorney in the family.” 

“ Just so,” assented Mr. Shackford, dryly. I 
could throw a bit of business in his way now and 
then, — eh ? ” 

“You could make his fortune, Shackford. I 
don’t see but you might employ him all the time. 
When he was not fighting the corporations, you 
might keep him at it suing you for his fees.” 

“ Very good, very good indeed,” responded Mr. 
Shackford, with a smile in which his eyes took no 
share, it was merely a momentary curling up of 
crisp wrinkles. He did not usually smile at other 
people’s pleasantries; but when a person worth 
three or four hundred thousand dollars condescends 
to indulge a joke, it is not to be passed over like 
that of a poor relation. “ Yes, yes,” muttered the 
old man, as he stooped and picked up a pin, add- 
ing it to a row of similarly acquired pins which 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


51 


gave the left lapel of his threadbare coat the ap- 
pearance of a miniature harp, I shall make a 
lawyer of him.” 

It had long been settled in Mr. Shackford’s mind 
that Richard, so soon as he had finished his studies, 
should enter the law-oflBce of Brandmann & Sharpe, 
a firm of rather sinister reputation in South Mill- 
ville. 

At fourteen Richard’s eyes had begun to open on 
the situation ; at fifteen he saw very clearly ; and 
one day, without much preliminary formulating of 
his plan, he decided on a step that had been taken 
by every male Shackford as far back as tradition 
preserves the record of the family. 

A friendship had sprung up between Richard 
and one William Durgin, a school-mate. This 
Durgin was a sallow, brooding boy, a year older 
than himself. The two lads were antipodal in 
disposition, intelligence, and social standing; for 
though Richard went poorly clad, the reflection of 
his cousin’s wealth gilded him. Durgin was the 
6011 of a washerwoman. An intimacy between the 
two would perhaps have been unlikely but for one 
fact : it was Durgin’s mother who had given little 
Dick a shelter at the period of his parents’ death. 
Though the circumstance did not lie within the 
pale of Richard’s personal memory, he acknowl- 


52 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


edged the debt by rather insisting on Durgin’a 
friendship. It was William Durgin, therefore, 
who was elected to wait upon Mr. Shackford on 
a certain morning which found that gentleman 
greatly disturbed by an unprecedented occurrence, 
— Richard had slept out of the house the previous 
night. 

Durgin was the bearer of a note which Mr. 
Shackford received in some astonishment, and read 
deliberately, blinking with weak eyes behind his 
glasses. Having torn off the blank page and laid 
it aside for his own more economical correspond- 
ence (the rascal had actually used a whole sheet to 
write ten words !), Mr. Shackford turned, and with 
the absorbed air of a naturalist studying some ab- 
normal bug gazed over the steel bow of his specta- 
cles at Durgin. 

Skit ! ” 

Durgin hastily retreated. 

“ There ’s a poor lawyer saved,” muttered the • 
old man, taking down his overcoat from a peg be- 
hind the door, and snapping off a shred of tint on 
ihe collar with his lean forefinger. Then his face 
relaxed, and an odd grin diffused a kind of wintry 
glow over it. 

Richard had run away to sea. 


5 


VI. 

After a lapse of four years, during which he 
had as completely vanished out of the memory of 
Stillwater as if he had been lying all the while in 
the crowded family tomb behind the South Church, 
Richard Shackford reappeared one summer morn- 
ing at the door of his cousin’s house in Welch’s 
Court. Mr. Shackford was absent at the moment, 
and Mrs. Morgansoii, an elderly deaf woman, who 
came in for a few hours every day to do the house- 
work, was busy in the extension. Without an- 
nouncing himself, Richard stalked up-stairs to the 
chamber in the gable, and went directly to a little 
shelf in one corner, upon which lay the dog’s-eared 
copy of Robinson Crusoe just as he had left it, save 
the four years’ accumulation of dust. Richard took 
the book fiercely in both hands, and with a single 
mighty tug tore it from top to bottom, and threw 
the fragments into the fire-place. 

A moment later, on the way down-stairs, he en« 
countered his kinsman ascending. 

“ Ah, you have come back I ” was Mr. Shack 
lord’s grim greeting after a second’s hesitation. 


64 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ Yes,” said Richard, with embarrassment, though 
he had made up his mind not to be embarrassed by 
his cousin. 

‘‘ I can’t say I was looking for you. You might 
hare dropped me a line; you were politer when you 
left. Why do you come back, and why did you go 
away ? ” demanded the old man, with abrupt fierce- 
ness. The last four years had bleached him and 
bent him and made him look very old. 

‘‘I did n’t like the idea of Blandmann & Sharpe, 
for one thing,” said Richard, “and I thought I 
liked the sea.” 

“And did you?” 

“ No, sir I I enjoyed seeing foreign parts, and 
all that.” 

“ Quite the young gentleman on his travels. But 
the sea did n’t agree with you, and now you like 
the idea of Blandmann & Sharpe ? ” 

“Not the least in the world, I assure you ! ” 
cried Richard. “I take to it as little as ever I 
did.” 

“ Perhaps that is fortunate. But it ’s going to 
be rather difficult to suit your tastes. What do 
you like ? ” 

“ I like you, cousin Lemuel ; you have always 
been kind to me — in your way,” said poor Rich 
ard. vearninsr for a glimmer of human warmth and 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


65 


•ympathy, and forgetting all the dreariness of his 
uncared-for childhood. He had been out in the 
world, and had found it even harder-hearted than 
his own home, which now he idealized in the first 
flush of returning to it. Again he saw himself, a 
blond-headed little fellow with stocking down at 
heel, climbing the steep staircase, or digging in the 
clay at the front gate with the air full of the breath 
of lilacs. That same penetrating perfume, blown 
through the open hall -door as he spoke, nearly 
brought the tears to his eyes. He had looked for- 
ward for years to this coming back to Stillwater. 
Many a time, as he wandered along the streets of 
some foreign sea-port, the rich architecture and the 
bright costumes had faded out before him, and 
given place to the fat gray belfrey and slim red 
chimneys of the humble New England village where 
he was born. He had learned to love it after los- 
ing it; and now he had struggled back through 
countless trials and disasters to find no welcome. 

“ Cousin Lemuel,” said Richard gently, “ only 
just us two are left, and we ought to be good 
friends, at least.” 

“ We are good enough friends,” mumbled Mr. 
Shackford, who could not evade taking the hand 
which Richard had forlornly reached out to him, 
‘ but that need n’t prevent us understanding each 


56 THE SI ILL WATER TRAGEDY, 

other like rational creatures. I don’t care for a 
great deal of fine sentiment in people who run 
away without saying so much as thank ’e.” 

“ I was all wrong ! ” 

That ’s what folks always say, with the delu- 
sion that it makes everything all right.” 

“Surely it helps, — to admit it.” 

“ That depends ; it generally does n’t. What 
do you propose to do ? ” 

“ I hardly know at the moment ; my plans are 
quite in the air.” 

“In the air I ” repeated Mr. Shackford. “I fancy 
that describes them. Your father’s plans were 
always in the air, too, and he never got any of 
them down.” 

“ I intend to get mine down.” 

“ Have you saved by anything ? ” 

“ Not a cent.” 

“ I thought as much.” 

“ I had a couple of hundred dollars in my sea- 
chest ; but I was shipwrecked, and lost it. I barely 
saved myself. When Robinson Crusoe ” — 

“ Damn Robinson Crusoe ! ” snapped Mr. Shack- 
Rrd. 

“ That ’s what I say,” returned Richard gravely. 

When Robinson Crusoe was cast on an uninhab 
tied island, shrimps and soft-shell crabs and al 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


67 


fiorts of delicious mollusks — ready boiled, I’ve no 
doubt — crawled up the beach, and begged him to 
eat them ; but I nearly starved to death.” 

“ Of course. You will always be shipwrecked, 
and always be starved to death; you are one of 
that kind. I don’t believe you are a Shackford at 
all. When they were not anything else they were 
good sailors. If you only had a drop of his blood 
in your veins ! ” and Mr. Shackford waved his 
hand towards a faded portrait of a youngish, florid 
gentleman with banged hair and high coat-collar, 
which hung against the wall half-way up the stair- 
case. This was the counterfeit presentment of 
Lemuel Shackford’s father seated with his back at 
an open window, through which was seen a ship 
under full canvas with the union-jack standing out 
straight in the wrong direction. But what are 
you going to do for yourself ? You can’t start a 
subscription paper, and play the shipwrecked mar- 
iner, you know.” 

“ No, I hardly care to do that,” said Richard, 
with a good-natured laugh, ‘‘ though no poor devil 
ever had a better outflt for the character.” 

What are you calculated for ? ” 

Richard was painfully conscious of his unfltnesa 
for many things ; but he felt there was nothing in 
life to which he was so ill adapted as his present 


58 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY 


position. Yet, until lie could look about him, he 
must needs eat his kinsman’s reluctant bread, or 
starve. The world was younger and more unso- 
phisticated when manna dropped from the clouds. 

Mr. Shackford stood with his neck craned over 
the frayed edge of his satin stock and one hand 
resting indecisively on the banister, and Richard 
on the step above, leaning his back against the 
blighted flowers of the wall-paper. From an oval 
window at the head of the stairs the summer sun- 
shine streamed upon them, and illuminated the 
high-shouldered clock which, ensconced in an al- 
cove, seemed to be listening to the conversation. 

There ’s no chance for you in the law,” said Mr. 
Shackford, after-^ long pause. “ Sharpe’s nephew 
has the berth. A while ago I might have got you 
into the Miantowona Iron Works; but the rascally 
directors are trying to ruin me now. There ’s the 
Union Store, if they happen to want a clerk. I 
suppose you would be about as handy behind a 
counter as a hippopotamus. I have no business of 
my own to train you to. You are not good for the 
sea, and the sea has probably spoiled you for any- 
thing else. A drop of salt water just poisons a 
landsman. I am sure I don’t know what to do with 
you.” 

‘‘Don’t bother yourself about it at all,” said 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


69 


Richard, cheerfully. “ You are going back on the 
whole family, ancestors and posterity, by suggest- 
ing that I can’t make my own living. I only want 
a little time to take breath, don’t you see, and a 
crust and a bed for a few days, such as you migh'i 
give any wayfarer. Meanwhile, I will look after 
things around the place. I fancy I was never an 
idler here since the day I learnt to split kindling.” 

“There’s your old bed in the north chamber,” 
said Mr. Shackford, wrinkling his forehead help- 
lessly. “ According to my notion, it is not so good 
as a bunk, or a hammock slung in a tidy forecastle, 
but it ’s at your service, and Mrs. Morganson, I 
dare say, can lay an extra plate at table.” 

With which gracious acceptance of Richard's 
proposition, Mr. Shackford resumed his way up- 
stairs, and the young man thoughtfully descended 
to the hall-door and thence into the street, to take 
a general survey of the commercial capabilities of 
Stillwater. 

The outlook was not inspiring. A machinist, or 
a mechanic, or a day laborer might have found a 
foot-hold. A man without handicraft was not in 
request in Stillwater. “ What is your trade ? ” was 
the staggering question that met Richard at the 
threshold. He went from worxshop to workshop, 
eonfidently and cheerfully at first, whistling softly 


60 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


between whiles ; but at every turn the question 
confronted him. In some places, where he was rec- 
ognized with thinly veiled surprise as that boy ol 
Shackford’s, he was kindly put off ; in others he re- 
ceived only a stare or a brutal No. 

By noon he had exhausted the leading shops and 
offices in the village, and was so disheartened that 
he began to dread the thought of returning home 
to dinner. Clearly, he was a superfluous person in 
Stillwater. A mortar-splashed hod-carrier, who had 
seated himself on a pile of brick and was eating his 
noonday rations from a tin can just brought to him 
by a slatternly girl, gave Richard a spasm of envy. 
Here was a man who had found his place, and was 
establishing — what Richard did not seem able to 
establish in his own case — a right to exist. 

At supper Mr. Shackford refrained from examin- 
ing Richard on his day’s employment, for which re- 
serve, or indifference, the boy was grateful. When 
the silent meal was over the old man went to his 
papers, and Richard withdrew to his room in the 
gable. He had neglected to provide himself with 
a candle. However, there was nothing to read, for 
in destroying Robinson Crusoe he had destroyed 
his entire library ; so he sat and brooded in the 
moonlight, casting a look of disgust now and then 
at the mutilated volume on the hearth. That lying 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


61 


romance ! It had been, indirectly, the cause of all 
his woe, filling his boyish brain with visions if 
picturesque adventure, and sending him off to sea, 
where he had lost four precious years of his life. 

‘‘If I had stuck to my studies,’^ reflected Richard 
while undressing, “ I might have made something 
of myself. He ’s a great fraud, Robinson Crusoe.” 

Richard fell asleep with as much bitterness in 
his bosom against DeFoe’s ingenious hero as if Rob- 
inson had been a living person instead of a living 
fiction, and out of this animosity grew a dream so 
fantastic and comical that Richard awoke himself 
with a bewildered laiigh just as the sunrise red- 
dened the panes of his chamber window. In this - 
dream somebody came to Richard and asked him if 
he had heard of that dreadful thing about young 
Crusoe. 

“ No, confound him I ” said Richard, “ what is 
it?” 

“ It has been ascertained,” said somebody, who 
seemed to Richard at once an intimate friend and 
an utter stranger, — “ it has been ascertained be- 
yond a doubt that the man Friday was not a man 
Friday at all, but a light-minded young princess 
from one of the neighboring islands who had fallen 
in love with Robinson. Her real name was Satur- 


62 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Why, that ’s scandalous ! ” cried Richard with 
beat. “ Think of the admiration and sympathy the 
world has been lavishing on this precious pair I 
Robinson Crusoe and his girl Saturday I That puts 
a diJEEerent face on it.” 

“ Another great moral character exploded,” mur- 
mured the shadowy shape, mixing itself up with the 
motes of a sunbeam and drifting out through the 
window. Then Richard fell to laughing in his 
sleep, and so awoke. He was still confused with 
the dream as he sat on the edge of the bed, pulling 
himself together in the broad daylight. 

“Well,” he muttered at length, “I shouldn’t 
wonder I There ’s nothing too bad to be believed 
Df that man.” 


VII. 


Richaed made an early start that morning in 
search of employment, and duplicated the failure ol 
the previous day. Nobody wanted him. If nobody 
wanted him in the village where he was born and 
bred, a village of counting-rooms and workshops, 
was any other place likely to need him? He had 
only one hope, if it could be called a hope ; at any 
rate, he had treated it tenderly as such and kept it 
for the last. He would apply to Rowland Slocum. 
Long ago, when Richard was an urchin making 
pot-hooks in the lane, the man used occasionally to 
pat him on the head and give him pennies. This 
was not a foundation on which to rear a very lofty 
castle ; but this was all he had. 

It was noon when Richard approached the mar- 
ble yard, and the men were pouring out into the 
street through the wide gate in the rough deal 
fence which inclosed the works, — heavy, brawny 
men, covered with fine white dust, who shouldered 
each other like cattle, and took the sidewalk to 
themselves. Richard stepped aside to let them 


64 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY, 


pass, eying them curiously as possible comrades. 
Suddenly a slim dark fellow, who had retained his 
paper cap and leather apron, halted and thrust 
forth a horny hand. The others went on. 

‘‘ Hullo, Dick Shackford ! ” 

“ What, is that you. Will ? You here ? ” 

Been here two years now. One of Slocum’s 
apprentices,” added Durgin, with an air of easy 
grandeur. 

‘‘ Two years ? How time flies — when it does n’t 
crawl ! Do you like it ? ” 

“ My time will be out next — Oh, the work ? 
Well, yes ; it’s not bad, and there ’s a jolly set in 
the yard. But how about you ? I heard last night 
you ’d got home. Been everywhere and come back 
wealthy ? The boys used to say you was off pirat- 
ing.” 

“ No such luck,” answered Richard, with a smile. 
‘‘I didn’t prey on the high seas, — quite the con- 
trary. The high sea captured my kit and four 
years’ savings. I will tell you about it some day. 
If I have a limb to my name and a breath left in 
my body, it is no thanks to the Indian Ocean. 
That is all I have got. Will, and I am looking 
around for bread and butter, — literally bread and 
butter.” 

“ No ? and the old gentleman so rich I ” 


F 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 65 

Durgin said this with sincere indignation, and 
was perhaps unconscious himself of experiencing 
that nameless, shadowy satisfaction which Roche- 
foucauld says we find in the adversity of our best 
friends. Certainly Richard looked very seedy in 
his suit of slop-shop clothes. 

“ I was on my way to Mr. Slocum’s to see 
if I could do anything with him,” Richard con- 
tinued. 

“ To get a job, do you mean ? ” 

“ Yes, to get work, — to learn how to work ; to 
master a trade, in short.” 

^‘You can’t be an apprentice, you know,” said 
Durgin. 

“Why not?” 

“ Slocum has two.” 

“Suppose he should happen to want another? 
He might.” 

“ The Association would n’t allow it.” 

“ What association ? ” 

“ The Marble Workers’ Association, of course.” 

“ They would n’t allow it I How is that ? ” 

“ This the way of it. Slocum is free to take on 
two apprentices every year, but no more. That 
prevents workmen increasing too fast, and so keeps 
up wages. The Marble Workers’ Association is a 
very neat thing, I can tell you.” 

5 


66 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ But does n’t Mr. Slocum own the yard ? 1 

thought he did.” 

“ Yes, he owns the yard.” 

“ If he wished to extend the business, could n’t 
he employ more hands ? ” 

‘‘ As many as he could get, — skilled workmen 
but not apprentices.” 

‘‘And Mr. Slocum agrees to that?” inquired 
Richard. 

“ He does.” 

“ And likes it ? ” 

“Not he, — he hates it; but he can’t help him- 
self.” 

“Upon my soul, I don’t see what prevents him 
taking on as many apprentices as he wants to.” 

“Why, the Association, to be sure,” returned 
Durgin, glancing at the town clock, which marked 
seven minutes past the hour. 

“ But how could they stop him ? ” 

“ In plenty of ways. Suppose Slocum has a lot 
of unfinished contracts on hand, — he always has 
fat contracts, — and the men was to knock off work. 
That would be kind of awkward, would n’t it? ” 

“ For a day or two, yes. He could send out of 
town for hands,” suggested Richard. 

“And they would n’t come, if the Association 
said ‘ Stay where you are.’ They are mostly in the 
ring. Some outsiders might come, tnough.” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


67 


“ Then what ? ” 

‘‘ Why, then the boys would make it pretty hot 
for them in Stillwater. Don’t you notice ? ” 

“ I notice there is not much chance for me,” said 
Richard, despondingly “ Is n’t that so ? ” 

‘‘Can’t say. Better talk with Slocum. But I 
must get along ; I have to be back sharp at one. I 
want to hear about your knocking around the worst 
kind. Can’t we meet somewhere to-night, — at the 
tavern ?” 

“ The tavern ? That did n’t use to be a quiet 
place.” 

“ It is n’t quiet now, but there ’s nowhere else to 
go of a night. It ’s a comfortable den, and there ’s 
always some capital fellows dropping in. A glass 
of lager with a mate is not a bad thing after a hard 
day’s work.” 

“ Both are good things when they are of the right 
sort.” 

“ That ’s like saying I ’m not the right sort, is n’t 
it?” 

“ I meant nothing of the kind. But I don’t take 
to the tavern. Not that I ’m squeamish ; I have 
lived four years among sailors, and have been in 
rougher places than you ever dreamed of ; but all 
the same I am afraid of the tavern. I ’ve seen 
many a brave fellow wrecked on that reef.” 


68 


THE STILLWATEB TRAGEDY. 


“ You always was a bit stuck up,” said Durgin 
candidly. 

“ Not an inch. I never had much reason to be • 
and less now than ever, when I can scarcely afford 
to drink water, let alone beer. I will drop round 
to your mother’s some evening, — I hope she ’a 
well, — and tell you of my ups and downs. That 
will be pleasanter for all hands.” 

Oh, as you like.” 

“Now for Mr. Slocum, though you have taken 
the wind out of me.” 

The two separated, Durgin with a half smile on 
his lip, and Richard in a melancholy frame of mind. 
He passed from the grass-fringed street into the de 
aerted marble yard, where it seemed as if the green 
Bummer had suddenly turned into white winter, and 
threading his way between the huge drifts of snowy 
stone, knocked at the door of Mr. Slocum’s private 
office. 

William Durgin had summed up the case fairly 
enough as it stood between the Marble Workers’ 
Association and Rowland Slocum. The system o^ 
this branch of the trades-union kept trained work- 
men comparatively scarce, and enabled them to 
command regular and even advanced prices at pe- 
riods when other trades were depressed. The oldei 
bands looked upon a fresh apprentice in the yard 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


69 


with much the same favor as workingmen of the 
era of Jacquard looked upon the introduction of a 
new piece of machinery. Unless the apprentice had 
exceptional tact, he underwent a rough novitiatei 
In any case, he served a term of social ostracism 
before he was admitted to full comradeship. Mr. 
Slocum could easily have found openings each year 
for a dozen learners, had the matter been under hia 
control ; but it was not. I am the master of each 
man individually,” he declared, ‘‘but collectively 
they are my master.” So his business, instead of 
naturally spreading and becoming a benefit to the 
many, was kept carefully pruned down for the ben- 
efit of the few. He was often forced to decline im- 
portant contracts, the filling of which would have 
resulted to the advantage of every person in the 
village. 

Mr. Slocum recognized Richard at once, and list- 
ened kindly to his story. It was Mr. Slocum’s 
way to listen kindly to every one ; but he was im- 
pressed with Richard’s intelligence and manner, and 
became desirous, for several reasons, to assist him. 
In the first place, there was room in the shops for 
another apprentice ; experienced hands were on jobs 
that could have been as well done by beginners ; 
and, in the second place, Mr. Slocum had an intui- 
kion that Lemuel Shackford was not treating the 


ro 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


lad fairly, though Richard had said nothing to this 
effect. Now, Mr. Slocum and Mr. Shackford were 
just then at swords’ points. 

‘‘ I don’t suppose I could annoy Shackford more, ’ 
was Mr. Slocum’s reflection, ‘‘ than by doing some* 
thing for this boy, whom he has always shamelessly 
neglected.” 

The motive was not a high one; but Richard 
would have been well satisfled with it, if he could 
have divined it. He did divine that Mr. Slocum 
was favorably inclined towards him, and stood 
watching that gentleman’s face with hopeful anx- 
iety. 

“I have my regulation number of young men, 
Richard,” said Mr. Slocum, “ and there will be no 
vacancy until autumn. If you could wait a few 
months.” 

Richard’s head drooped. 

‘‘Can’t do that? You write a good hand, you 
Bay. Perhaps you could assist the book-keeper 
until there ’s a chance for you in the yard.” 

“ I think I could, sir,” said Richard eagerly. 

“ If you were only a draughtsman, now, I could 
do something much better for you. I intend to set 
up a shop for ornamental carving, and I want some 
one to draw patterns. If you had a knack at do* 
signing, if you could draw at all ” — 


THE STILLWATER TRAGELT 


11 


Richard’s face lighted up. 

“ Perhaps you have a turn that way. I remem- 
ber the queer things you used to scratch in the mud 
in the court, when you were a little shaver. Can 
you draw ? ” 

‘‘ Why, that is the one thing I can do I ” cried 
Richard, — “in a rough fashion, of course,” he 
added, fearing he had overstated it. 

“ It is a rough fashion that will serve. You must 
let me see some of your sketches.” 

“ I have n’t any, sir. I had a hundred in my 
sea-chest, but that was lost, — pencilings of old 
archways, cathedral spires, bits of frieze, and such 
odds and ends as took my fancy in the ports we 
touched at. I recollect one bit. I think I could 
do it for you now. Shall I ? ” 

Mr. Slocum nodded assent, smiling at the young 
fellow’s enthusiasm, and only partially suspecting 
his necessity. Richard picked up a pen and began 
scratching on a letter sheet which lay on the desk. 
He was five or six minutes at the work, during 
which the elder man watched him with an amused 
expression. 

“ It ’s a section of cornice on the fa9ade of the 
Hindoo College at Calcutta,’ said Richard, hand- 
ing him the paper, — “ no, it ’s the custom-house, 
I forget which ; but it does n’t matter.” 


72 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


The amused look gradually passed out of Mr 
Slocum’s countenance as he examined the sketch. 
It was roughly but clearly drawn, and full of fa- 
cility. Why, that is very clever ! ” he said, hold- 
ing it at arms’-length ; and then, with great gravity, 
“ I hope you are not a genius, Richard ; that wouH 
be too much of a fine thing. If you are not, you 
3an be of service to me in my plans.” 

Richard laughingly made haste to declare that 
to the best of his knowledge and belief he was not 
a genius, and it was decided on the spot that Rich- 
ard should assist Mr. Simms, the bookkeeper, and 
presently try his hand at designing ornamental pat- 
terns for the carvers, Mr. Slocum allowing him ap- 
prentice wages until the quality of his work should 
be ascertained. 

It is very little,” said Mr. Slocum, ‘‘ but it will 
pay your board, if you do not live at home.” 

“I shall not remain at my cousin’s,” Richard 
replied, ‘‘if you call that home.” 

“ I can imagine it is not much of a home. Your 
cousin, not to put too fine a point on it, is a 
wretch.’' 

“ I am sorry to hear you say that, sir ; he ’s my 
only living kinsman.” 

“ You are fortunate in having but one, then. 
However, I am wrong to abuse him to you ; but 1 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 73 

cannot speak of him with moderation, he has just 
played me such a despicable trick. Look here.” 

Mr. Slocum led Richard to the door, and pointing 
to a row of new workshops which extended the 
entire length of one side of the marble yard, said, “ 
I built these last spring. ^ After the shingles 
were on we discovered that the rear partition, for a 
distance of seventy-five feet, overlapped two inches 
on Shackford’s meadow. I was ready to drop when 
I saw it, your cousin is such an unmanageable old 
fiend. Of course I went to him immediately, and 
what do you think ? He demanded five hundred 
dollars for that strip of land I Five hundred dol- 
lars for a few inches of swamp meadow not worth 
ten dollars the acre ! ‘ Then take your disreputa- 

ble old mill off my property ! ’ says Shackford, — 
he called it a disreputable old mill ! I was hasty, 
perhaps, and I told him to go to the devil. He 
said he would, and he did ; for he went to Bland- 
mann. When the lawyers got hold of it, they 
bothered the life out of me ; so I just moved the 
building forward two inches, at an expense of 
seven hundred dollars. Then what does the demon 
do but board up all my windows opening on the 
meadow ! Richard, I make it a condition that you 
shall not lodge at Shackford’s.” 

‘‘ Nothing could induce me to live another day in 


T4 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY, 


the same house with him, sir,” answered Richard 
suppressing an inclination to smile ; and then seri- 
ously, His bread is bitter.” 

Richard went back with a light heart to Welch’s 
Court. At the gate of the marble yard he met 
William Durgin returning to work. The steam- 
whistle had sounded the call, and there was no 
time for exchange of words ; so Richard gave his 
comrade a bright nod and passed by. Durgin 
turned and stared after him. 

Looks as if Slocum had taken him on ; but it 
never can be as apprentice ; he would n’t dare do 
it.” 

Mr. Shackford had nearly finished his frugal din- 
ner when Richard entered. “ If you can’t hit it to 
be in at your meals,” said Mr. Shackford, helping 
himself absently to the remaining chop, ‘‘ perhaps 
you had better stop away altogether.” 

“ I can do that now, cousin,” replied Richard 
sunnily. “ I have engaged with Slocum.” 

The old man laid down his knife and fork. 

With Slocum I A Shackford a miserable mar- 
ble-chipper ! ” 

There was so little hint of the aristocrat in Lem- 
uel Shackford’s sordid life and person that no one 
suspected him of even self-esteem. He went as 
meanly dressed as a tramp, and as careless of con 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


75 


temporary criticism ; yet clear down in his liver, or 
somewhere in his anatomy, he nourished, an odd 
abstract pride in the family Shackford. Heaven 
knows why ! To be sure, it dated far back ; its 
women had always been virtuous, and its men, if 
not always virtuous, had always been ship-captains. 
But beyond this the family had never amounted to 
anything, and now there was so very little left of 
it. For Richard as Richard Lemuel cared nothing ; 
for Richard as a Shackford he had a chaotic feeling 
that defied analysis and had never before risen to 
the surface. It was therefore with a disgust en- 
tirely apart from hatred of Slocum or regard for 
Richard that the old man exclaimed, A Shack- 
ford a miserable marble-chipper ! ’’ 

‘‘ That is better than hanging around the village 
with my hands in my pockets. Is n’t it ? ” 

“ I don’t know that anybody has demanded that 
you should hang around the village.” 

“ I ought to go away, you mean ? But I have 
found work here, and I might not find it else- 
where.” 

“ Stillwater is not the place to begin life in. It ’s 
Ihe place to go away from, and come back to.” 

“ Well, I have come back.’ 

“ And how ? With one shirt and a lot of bad 


sailor habits.” 


76 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“My one shirt is my only very bad habit,” said 
Richard, with a laugh, — he could laugh now, — 
“ and I mean to get rid of that.” 

Mr. Shackford snapped his fingers disdainfully. 

“ You ought to have stuck to the sea ; that ’s re- 
spectable. In ten years you might have risen to be 
master of a bark ; that would have been honorable. 
You might have gone down in a gale, — you prob- 
ably would, — and that would have been fortunate. 
But a stone-cutter ! You can understand,” growled 
Mr. Shackford, reaching out for his straw hat, 
which he put on and crushed over his brows, “ I 
don’t keep a boarding-house for Slocum’s hands.” 

“ Oh, I ’m far from asking it ! ” cried Richard. 
“ I am thankful for the two nights’ shelter I have 
had.” 

“ That ’s some of your sarcasm, I suppose,” said 
Mr. Shackford, half turning, with his hand on the 
door-knob. 

“ No, it is some of my sincerity. I am really 
obliged to you. You were n’t very cordial, to be 
sure, but I did not deserve cordiality.” 

“ You have figured that out correctly.” 

“ I want to begin over again, you see, and start 
fair.” 

“Then begin by dropping Slocum.” 

“ You have not given me a chance to tell you 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 77 

tvliat the arrangement is. However, it ’s irrevoca- 
ble.” 

‘‘ I don’t want to hear. I don’t care a curse, so 
long as it is an arrangement,” and Mr. Shackford 
hurried out of the room, slamming the door behind 
him. 

Then Richard, quite undisturbed by his cousin’s 
unreasonableness, sat himself down to eat the last 
meal he was ever to eat under that roof, — a feat 
which his cousin’s appetite had rendered compara- 
tively easy. 

While engaged in this, Richard revolved in his 
mind several questions as to his future abode. He 
could not reconcile his thought to any of the work- 
ingmen’s boarding-houses, of which there were five 
or six in the slums of the village, where the door- 
ways were greasy, and women fiitted about in the 
hottest weather with thick woolen shawls over their 
heads. Yet his finances did not permit him to as- 
pire to lodgings much more decent. If he could 
only secure a small room somewhere in a quiet 
leighborhood. Possibly Mrs. Durgin would let him 
have a chamber in her cottage. He was beginning 
life over again, and it struck him as nearly an ideal 
plan to begin it on the identical spot where he had, 
fn a manner, made his first start. Besides, there 
was William Durgin for company, when the long 


am ?TTIiLvVA ’ER TRAGEDY. 


L. . of the Few England winter set in. This 
idea smiled so pleasantly in Richard’s fancy that he 
pushed the plate away from him impatientl}^', and 
picked up his hat which lay on the floor beside the 
chair. 

That evening he moved from the Shackford house 
to Mrs. Durgin’s cottage in Cross Street. It was 
not an imposing ceremony. With a small brown- 
paper parcel under his arm, he walked from one 
threshold to the other, and the thing was done. 


VIII. 


The six months which followed Richard’s install- 
ment in the office at Slocum’s Yard were so crowded 
with novel experience that he scarcely noted their 
flight. The room at the Durgins, as will presently 
appear, turned out an unfortunate arrangement; 
but everything else had prospered. Richard proved 
an efficient aid to Mr. Simms, who quietly shifted 
the pay-roll to the younger man’s shoulders. This 
was a very complicated account to keep, involving 
as it did a separate record of each employee’s time 
and special work. An ancient bookkeeper parts 
lightly with such trifles when he has a capable as- 
sistant. It also fell to Richard’s lot to pay the 
hands on Saturdays. William Durgin blinked his 
surprise on the first occasion, as he filed in with the 
others and saw Richard posted at the desk, with 
the pay-roll in his hand and the pile of greenbacks 
^ying in front of him. 

“ I suppose you ’ll be proprietor next,” remarked 
Durgin, that evening, at the supper table. 

“ When T am, Will,” answered Richard cheerily, 


80 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ yon shall be on the road to foreman of the finish- 
ing shop.” 

“ Thank you,” said Durgin, not too graciously. 
It grated on him to play the part of foreman, even 
in imagination, with Dick Shackford as proprietor, 
Durgin could not disconnect his friend from that 
seedy, half-crestfallen figure to whom, a few months 
before, he had given elementary instruction on the 
Marble Workers’ Association. 

Richard did not find his old schoolmate so com- 
panionable as memory and anticipation had painted 
him. The two young men moved on different lev- 
els. Richard’s sea life, now that he had got at a 
sufficient distance from it, was a perspective full of 
pleasant color ; he had a taste for reading, a thirst 
to know things, and his world was not wholly shut 
in by the Stillwater horizon. It was still a pitifully 
narrow world, but wide compared with Durgin’s, 
which extended no appreciable distance in any di- 
rection from the Stillwater hotel. He spent his 
evenings chiefly there, returning home late at night, 
and often in so noisy a mood as to disturb Richard, 
who slept in an adjoining apartment. This was an 
annoyance ; and it was an annoyance to have Mrs. 
Durgin coming to him with complaints of William. 
Other matters irritated Richard. He had contrived 
to replenish his wardrobe, and the sunburn was disk 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY, 


81 


(tppearing from his hands, which the nature of his 
occupation left soft and unscarred. Durgin was 
disposed at times to be sarcastic on these changes, 
but always stopped short of actual offense ; for he 
remembered that Shackford when a boy, amiable 
and patient as he was, had had a tiger’s temper at 
bottom. Durgin had seen it roused once or twice, 
and even received a chance sweep of the paw. 
Richard liked Durgin’s rough wit as little as Dur- 
gin relished Richard’s good-natured bluntness. It 
was a mistake, that trying to pick up the dropped 
thread of old acquaintance. 

As soon as the permanency of his position was 
assured, and his means warranted the step, Richard 
transported himself and his effects to a comfortable 
chamber in the same house with Mr. Pinkham, the 
school-master, the perpetual falsetto of whose flute 
was positively soothing after four months of Will- 
iam Durgin’s bass. Mr. Pinkham having but one 
lung, and that defective, played on the flute. 

“ You see what you ’ve gone and done, William,” 
remarked Mrs. Durgin plaintively, with your 
l^ays. There goes the quietest young man in Still- 
water, and four dohars a week ! ” 

“ There goes a swell, you ’d better say. He was 
always a proud beggar ; nobody was ever good 
snough for him.” 

a 


82 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ You should n’t say that, William. I could cry, 
to lose him and his cheerfulness out of the house,” 
and Mrs. Durgin began to whimper. 

Wait till he ’s out of luck again, and he ’ll 
come back to us fast enough. That ’s when his 
kind remembers their friends. Blast him ! he can’t 
even take a drop of beer with a chum at the tav- 
ern.” 

“ And right, too. There ’s beer enough taken at 
the tavern without him.” 

‘‘ If you mean me, mother, I ’ll get drunk to- 
night.” 

No, no ! ” cried Mrs. Durgin, pleadingly, “ I 
did n’t mean you, William, but Peters and that 
set.” 

I thought you could n’t mean me,” said Will- 
iam, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his 
monkey-jacket, and sauntering off in the direction 
of the Stillwater hotel, where there was a choice 
company gathered, it being Saturday night, and 
the monthly meeting of the Union. 

Mr. Slocum had wasted no time in organizing a 
shop for his experiment in ornamental carving. 
Five or six men, who had worked elsewhere at this 
branch, were turned over to the new department, 
with Stevens as foreman and Richard as designer 
Very shortly Richard had as much as he could do 


THE STILLWATEB TRAGEDY. 


83 


lo fumisli the patterns required. These consisted 
mostly of scrolls, wreaths, and mortuary dove- wings 
for head-stones. Fortunately for Richard he had 
no genius, but plenty of a kind of talent just 
abreast with Mr. Slocum’s purpose. As the carvers 
became interested in their work, they began to show 
Richard the respect and good-will which at first had 
been withheld, for they had not quite liked being 
under the supervision of one who had not served at 
the trade. His youth had also told against him ; but 
Richard’s pleasant, off-hand manner quickly won 
them. He had come in contact with rough men on 
shipboard ; he had studied their ways, and he knew 
that with all their roughness there is no class so 
sensitive. This insight was of great service to him. 
Stevens, who had perhaps been the least disposed 
to accept Richard, was soon his warm ally. 

“ See what a smooth fist the lad has ! ” he said 
one day holding up a new drawing to the shop. 
“ A man with a wreath of them acorns on his 
head-stone oughter be perfectly happy, damn him ! ” 

It was, however, an anchor with a broken chain 
pendent — a design for a monument to the late 
Captain Septimius Salter, who had parted his 
cable at sea — which settled Richard’s status with 
Stevens. 

“Boys, that Shackford is what I call a born 
genei.” 


84 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


After all, is not the one-eyed man who is king 
among the blind the most fortunate of monarchs ? 
Your little talent in a provincial village looms a 
great deal taller than your mighty genius in a city. 
Richard Shackford working for Rowland Slocum 
at Stillwater was happier than Michaelangelo in 
Rome with Pope Julius II. at his back. And 
Richard was the better paid, too ! 

One day he picked up a useful hint from a cele- 
brated sculptor, who had come to the village in 
search of marble for the base of a soldiers’ monu- 
ment. Richard was laboriously copying a spray of 
fern, the delicacy of which eluded his pencil. The 
sculptor stood a moment silently observing him. 

“ Why do you spend an hour doing only pas< 
sably well what you could do perfectly in ten 
minutes ? ” 

‘‘ I suppose it is because I am stupid, sir,” said 
Richard. 

“ No stupid man ever suspected himself of being 
anything but clever. You draw capitally; but 
nature beats you out and out at designing ferns. 
Just ask her to make you a fac-simile in plaster, 
and see how handily she will lend herself to the 
job. Of course you must help her a little.” 

“ Oh, I am not above giving nature a lift,” saio 
Richard modestly. 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


85 


“ Lay a cloth on your table, place the fern on 
the cloth, and pour a thin paste of plaster of Paris 
over the leaf, — do that gently, so as not to disar- 
range the spray. When the plaster is set, there ’a 
your mold ; remove the leaf, oil the matrix, and 
pour in fresh plaster. When that is set, cut away 
the mold carefully, and there ’s your spray of fern, 
as graceful and perfect as if nature had done it 
all by herself. You get the very texture of the 
leaf by this process.” 

After that, Kichard made casts instead of draw- 
ings for the carvers, and fancied he was doing a 
new thing, until he visited some marble-works in 
the great city. 

At this period, whatever change subsequently 
took place in his feeling, Richard was desirous of 
establishing friendly relations with his cousin. The 
young fellow’s sense of kinship was singularly 
strong, and it was only after several repulses at the 
door of the Shackford house and on the street that 
he relinquished the hope of placating the sour old 
man. At times Richard was moved almost to pity 
him. Every day Mr. Shackford seemed to grow 
shabbier and more spectral. He was a grotesque 
figure now, in his napless hat and broken-down 
stock. The metal button-molds on his ancient 
waistcoat had worn their way through the satin 


86 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY, 


coverings, leaving here and there a sparse fringe 
around the edges, and somehow suggesting little 
bald heads. Looking at him, you felt that the inner 
man was as threadbare and dilapidated as his out 
side ; but in his lonely old age he asked for no hu- 
man sympathy or companionship, and, in fact, stood 
in no need of either. With one devouring passion 
he set the world at defiance. He loved his gold, — 
the metal itself, the weight and color and touch of 
it. In his bedroom on the ground-fioor Mr. Shack- 
ford kept a small iron-clamped box filled to the lid 
with bright yellow coins. Often, at the dead of 
night, with door bolted and curtain down, he would 
spread out the glittering pieces on the table, and 
bend over them with an amorous glow in his faded 
eyes. These were his blond mistresses ; he took a 
fearful joy in listening to their rustling, muffled 
laughter as he drew them towards him with eager 
hands. If at that instant a blind chanced to slam, 
or a footfall to echo in the lonely court, then the 
withered old sultan would hurry his slaves back 
into their iron-bound seraglio, and extinguish the 
light. It would have been a wasted tenderness to 
pity him. He was very happy in his own way, 
that Lemuel Shackford. 


IX. 


Towards the close of his second year with Mr. 
Slocum, Richard was assigned a work-room by 
himself, and relieved of his accountant’s duties. 
His undivided energies were demanded by the 
carving department, which had proved a lucrative 
success. 

The rear of the lot on ‘which Mr. Slocum’s house 
stood was shut off from the marble yard by a high 
brick wall pierced with a private door for Mr. 
Slocum’s convenience. Over the kitchen in the 
extension, which reached within a few feet of the 
wall, was a disused chamber, approachable on the 
outside by a flight of steps leading to a veranda. 
To this room Richard and his traps were removed. 
With a round table standing in the centre, with the 
plaster models arranged on shelves and sketches in 
pencil and crayon tacked against the whitewashed 
walls, the apartment was transformed into a delight- 
ful atelier. An open flre-place, with a brace of an- 
tiquated iron-dogs straddling the red brick hearth, 
gave the finishing touch. The occupant was in 


88 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


easy communication with the yard, from which the 
busy din of clinking chisels came up musically ta 
his ear, and was still beyond the reach of unneces- 
sary interruption. Richard saw clearly all the ad- 
vantages of this transfer, but he was far from hav- 
ing any intimation that he had made the most im- 
portant move of his life. 

The room had two doors : one opened on the 
veranda, and the other into a narrow hall connect- 
ing the extension with the main building. Fre- 
quently, that first week after taking possession, 
Richard detected the sweep of a broom and the 
rustle of drapery in this passage-way, the sound 
sometimes hushing itself quite close to the door, 
as if some one had paused a moment just outside. 
He wondered whether it was the servant-maid 
or Margaret Slocum, whom he knew very well by 
sight. It was, in fact, Margaret, who was dying 
with the curiosity of fourteen to peep into the 
studio, so carefully locked whenever the young 
man left it, — dying with curiosity to see the work- 
shop, and standing in rather great awe of the 
Workman. 

In the home circle her father had a habit of 
gpeaking with deep respect of young Shackford’s 
ability, and once she had seen him at their table, 
— at a Thanksgiving. On this occasion Richara 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


89 


had appalled her by the solemnity of his shyness, 
— poor Richard, who was so unused to the ameni- 
ties of a handsomely served dinner, that the chill 
which came over him cooled the Thanksgiving tur- 
key on his palate. 

When it had been decided that he was to have 
the spare room for his workshop, Margaret, with 
womanly officiousness, had swept it and dusted it 
and demolished the cobwebs ; but since then she 
had not been able to obtain so much as a glimpse 
of the interior. A ten minutes’ sweeping had 
sufficed for the chamber, but the passage-way 
seemed in quite an irreclaimable state, judging by 
the number of times it was necessary to sweep it in 
the course of a few days. Now Margaret was not 
an unusual mixture of timidity and daring ; so one 
morning, about a week after Richard was settled, 
she walked with quaking heart up to the door of 
the studio, and knocked as bold as brass. 

Richard opened the door, and smiled pleasantly 
at Margaret standing on the threshold with an ex- 
pression of demure defiance in her face. Did Mr. 
Shackford want anything more in the way of pans 
and pails for his plaster ? No, Mr. Shackford had 
everything he required of the kind. But would 
not Miss Margaret walk in ? Yes, she would step 
in for a moment, but with a good deal of indiffer 


90 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


ence, though, giving an air of chance to her settled 
determination to examine that room from top t o 
bottom. 

Richard showed her his drawings and casts, and 
enlightened her on all the simple mysteries of his 
craft. Margaret, of whom he was a trifle afraid at 
first, amused him with her candor and sedateness, 
seeming now a mere child, and now an elderly 
person gravely inspecting matters. The frankness 
and simplicity were hers by nature, and the oldish 
ways — notably her self-possession, so quick to as- 
sert itself after an instant’s forgetfulness — came 
perhaps of losing her mother in early childhood, 
and the premature duties which that misfortune 
entailed. She amused him, for she was only four 
teen ; but she impressed him also, for she was Mr 
Slocum’s daughter. Yet it was not her lightness, 
but her gravity, that made Richard smile to him- 
self. 

“ I am not interrupting you ? ” she asked pres- 
ently. 

Not in the least,” said Richard. “ I am wait- 
ing for these molds to harden. I cannot do any- 
thing until then.” 

Papa says you are very clever,” remarked 
Margaret, turning her wide black eyes full upon 
him. ^‘Are you ? ” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


91 


‘‘Far from it,” replied Richard, laughing to veil 
his confusion “ but I am glad your father thinVs 

BO.” 

“ You should not be glad to have him think so,’ 
returned Margaret reprovingly, “if you are not 
clever. I suppose you are, though. Tell the truth, 
now.” 

“It is not fair to force a fellow into praising 
himself.” 

“ You are trying to creep out 1 ” 

“ Well, then, there are many cleverer persons 
than I in the world, and a few not so clever.” 

“ That won’t do,” said Margaret positively. 

“ I don’t understand what you mean by clever- 
ness, Miss Margaret. There are a great many 
kinds and degrees. I can make fairly honest pat- 
terns for the men to work by ; but I am not an 
artist, if you mean that.” 

“ You are not an artist ? ” 

“ No ; an artist creates, and I only copy, and 
that in a small way. Any one can learn to pre- 
pare casts ; but to create a bust or a statue — that 
is to say, a fine one — a man must have genius.” 

“ You have no genius ? ” 

• Not a grain.” 

“ I am sorry to hear that,” said Margaret, with 
t disappointed look. “ But perhaps it will come- 


92 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


she added encouragingly. “ I have read that nearly 
all great artists and poets are almost always mod- 
est. They know better than anybody else how far 
they fall short of what they intend, and so they 
don’t put on airs. You don’t, either. I like that 
in you. May be you have genius without knowing 
it, Mr. Shackford.” 

It is quite without knowing it, I assure you 1 ” 
protested Richard, with suppressed merriment. 

What an odd girl ! ” he thought. “ She is actu- 
ally talking to me like a mother ! ” 

The twinkling light in the young man’s eyes, or 
something that jarred in his manner, caused Mar- 
garet at once to withdraw into herself. She went 
silently about the room, examining the tools and 
patterns ; then, nearing the door, suddenly dropped 
Richard a quaint little courtesy, and was gone. 

This was the colorless beginning of a friendship 
that was destined speedily to be full of tender 
lights and shadows, and to flow on with unsuspected 
depth. For several days Richard saw nothing more 
of Margaret, and scarcely thought of her. The 
strange little figure was fading out of his mind, 
when, one afternoon, it again appeared at his door, 
This time Margaret had left something of her se^ 
dateness behind ; she struck Richard as being bott 
less ripe and less immature than he had fancied 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY* 


93 


she interested rather than amused him. Perhaps he 
had been partially insulated by his own shyness on 
the first occasion, and had caught only a confused 
and inaccurate impression of Margaret’s person- 
ality. She remained half an hour in the work- 
shop, and at her departure omitted the formal 
courtesy. 

After this, Margaret seldom let a week slip 
without tapping once or twice at the studio, at first 
with some pretext or other, and then with no pre- 
tense whatever. When Margaret had disburdened 
herself of excuses for dropping in to watch Richard 
mold his leaves and flowers, she came often er, and 
Richard insensibly drifted into the habit of expect- 
ing her on certain days, and was disappointed when 
she failed to appear. His industry had saved him, 
until now, from discovering how solitary his life 
really was ; for his life was as solitary — as solitary 
as that of Margaret, who lived in the great house 
with only her father, the two servants, and an 
episodical aunt. The mother was long ago dead ; 
Margaret could not recollect when that gray head- 
itone, with blotches of rusty-green moss breaking 
Ltit over the lettering, was not in the churchyard 
and there never had been any brothers or sisters. 

To Margaret Richard’s installation in the empty 
room, where as a child she nad always been afraid 


94 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


fco go, was the single important break she could 
remember in the monotony of her existence ; and 
now a vague yearning for companionship, the blind 
sense of the plant reaching towards the sunshine, 
drew her there. The tacitly prescribed half houf 
often lengthened to an hour. Sometimes Margaret 
brought a book with her, or a piece of embroidery, 
and the two spoke scarcely ten words, Richard 
giving her a smile now and then, and she return- 
ing a sympathetic nod as the cast came out suc- 
cessfully. 

Margaret at fifteen — she was fifteen now — was 
not a beauty. There is the loveliness of the bud 
and the loveliness of the full-blown fiower; but 
Margaret as a blossom was not pretty. She was 
awkward and angular, with prominent shoulder- 
blades, and no soft curves anywhere in her slim- 
ness ; only her black hair, growing low on the fore- 
head, and her eyes were fine. Her profile, indeed, 
with the narrow forehead and the sensitive upper 
lip, might fairly have suggested the mask of Clytie 
which Richard had bought of an itinerant image- 
dealer, and fixed on a bracket over the mantel- 
shelf. But her eyes were her specialty, if one may 
gay that. They were fringed with such heavy 
lashes that the girl seemed always to be in half- 
mourning. Her smile was singularly sweet and 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 95 

bright, perhaps because it broke through so much 
sombre coloring. 

If there was a latent spark of sentiment between 
Richard and Margaret in those earlier days, neither 
was conscious of it ; they had seemingly begun 
where happy lovers generally end, — by being dear 
comrades. He liked to have Margaret sitting there, 
with her needle flashing in the sunlight, or her 
eyelashes making a rich gloom above the book as 
she read aloud. It was so agreeable to look up 
from his work, and not be alone. He had been 
alone so much. And Margaret found nothing in 
the world pleasanter than to sit there and watch 
Richard making his winter garden, as she called it. 
By and by it became her custom to pass every Sat- 
urday afternoon in that employment. 

Margaret was not content to be merely a visitor ; 
she took a housewifely care of the workshop, reso- 
lutely straightening out its chronic disorder at un- 
expected moments, and fighting the white dust that 
settled upon everything. The green-paper shade, 
which did not roll up very well, at the west window 
was of her devising. An empty camphor vial on 
Richard’s desk had always a clove pink, or a pansy, 
or a rose, stuck into it, according to the season. 
She hid herself away and peeped out in a hundred 
feminine things in the room. Sometimes she was 


96 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


a bit of crochet-work left on a chair, and some* 
times she was only a hair-pin, which Richard 
gravely picked up and put on the mantel-piece. 

Mr. Slocum threw no obstacles in the path of 
this idyllic friendship ; possibly he did not observe 
it. In his eyes Margaret was still a child, — a 
point of view that necessarily excluded any consid- 
eration of Richard. Perhaps, however, if Mr. Slo- 
cum could have assisted invisibly at a pretty little 
scene which took place in the studio, one day, some 
twelve or eighteen months after Margaret’s first 
visit to it, he might have found food for reflection. 

It was a Saturday afternoon. Margaret had come 
into the workshop with her sewing, as usual. The 
papers on the round table had been neatly cleared 
away, and Richard was standing by the window, 
indolently drumming on the glass with a palette- 
knife. 

“ Not at work this afternoon ? ” 

I was waiting for you.” 

“ That is no excuse at all,” said Margaret, sweep- 
ing across the room with a curious air of self-con- 
Bciousness, and arranging her drapery Avith infinite 
pains as she seated herself. 

Richard looked puzzled for a moment, and then 
exclaimed, “ Margaret, you have got on a long 
dress I ” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 97 

“ Yes,” said Margaret, with dignity. Do you 
like it, — the train ? ” 

That ’s a train ? ” 

“Yes,” said Margaret, standing up and glancing 
over her left shoulder at the soft folds of maroon- 
colored stuff, which, with a mysterious feminine 
movement of the foot, she caused to untwist itself 
and flow out gracefully behind her. There was 
really something very pretty in the hesitating lines 
of the tall, slender figure, as she leaned back that 
way. Certain unsuspected points emphasized them- 
selves so cunningly. 

“ I never saw anything finer,” declared Richard. 
“ It was worth waiting for.” 

“ But you should n’t have waited,” said Margaret, 
with a gratified flush, settling herself into the chair 
again. “ It was understood that you were never to 
let me interfere with your work.” 

“ You see you have, by being twenty minutes 
late. I ’ve finished that acorn border for Stevens’s 
capitals, and there’s nothing more to do for the 
rard. I am going to make something for myself, 
and I want you to lend me a hand.” 

“ How can I help you, Richard ? ” Margaret 
asked, promptly stopping the needle in the hem. 

“I need a paper-weight to keep my sketches 
from being blown about, and I wish you liter- 
T 


98 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


ally to lend me a hand, — a hand to take a cast 
of.” 

“ Really?” 

“ I think that little white claw would make a 
very neat paper-weight,” said Richard. 

Margaret gravely rolled up her sleeve to the el- 
bow, and contemplated the hand and wrist crit- 
ically. 

“ It is like a claw, is n’t it. I think you can find 
something better than that.” 

“ No ; that is what I want, and nothing else. 
That, or no paper-weight for me.” 

“ Very well, just as you choose. It will be a 
fright.” 

“ The other hand, please.” 

‘‘ I gave you the left because I ’ve a ring on this 
one.” 

‘‘ You can take oJff the ring, I suppose.” 

“ Of course I can take it ofE.” 

“Well, then, do.” 

“ Richard,” said Margaret severely, “ I hope you 
are not a fidget.” 

“ A what ? ” 

“ A fuss, then, — a person who always wants 

•irything some other way, and makes just twice 
ns much trouble as anybody else.” 

^ No. Margaret, I am not that. I prefer you/ 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


99 


right hand because the left is next to the heart, and 
the evaporation of the water in the plaster turns it 
as cold as snow. Your arm will be chilled to the 
shoulder. We don’t want to do anything to hurt 
the good little heart, you know.” 

“ Certainly not,” said Margaret. There I ” and 
she rested her right arm on the table, while Rich- 
ard placed the hand in the desired position on a 
fresh napkin which he had folded for the purpose. 

“Let your hand lie flexible, please. Hold it nat- 
urally. Why do you stiffen the fingers so ? ” 

“ I don’t ; they stiffen themselves, Richard. 
They know they are going to have their photo- 
graph taken, and can’t look natural. Who ever 
does?” 

After a minute the fingers relaxed, and settled of 
their own accord into an easy pose. Richard laid 
his hand softly on her wrist. 

“ Don’t move now.” 

“ I ’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” said Margaret 
giving a sudden queer little glance at his face. 

Richard emptied a paper of white powder into a 
great yellow bowl half filled with water, and fell to 
stirring it vigorously, like a pastry-cook beating 
eggs. When the plaster was of the proper consist- 
ency he began building it up around the hand, pour-* 
ing on a spoonful at a time, here and there, care* 


100 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


fully. In a minute or two the inert white fingers 
were completely buried. Margaret made a comical 
grimace. 

“ Is it cold ? ” 

‘‘ Ice,” said Margaret, shutting her eyes involun- 
tarily. 

“If it is too disagreeable we can give it up,” 
suggested Richard. 

“ No, don’t touch it I ” she cried, waving him 
back with her free arm. “I don’t mind ; but it ’s 
as cold as so much snow. How curious ! What 
does it?” 

“ I suppose a scientific fellow could explain the 
matter to you easily enough. When the water 
evaporates a kind of congealing process sets in, — 
a sort of atmospherical change, don’t you know? 
The sudden precipitation of the — the ” — 

“ You ’re as good as Tyndall on Heat,” said Mar- 
garet demurely. 

“ Oh, Tyndall is well enough in his way,” re- 
turned Richard, “but of course he doesn’t go into 
things so deeply as I do.” 

“ The idea of telling me that ‘ a congealing proc- 
ess sets in,’ when I am nearly frozen to death ! ” 
cried Margaret, bowing her head over the impris* 
oned arm. 

“ Your unseemly levity, Margaret, makes it neo 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 101 

essary for me to defer my remarks on natural phe- 
nomena until some more fitting occasion.’’ 

“ Oh, Richard, don’t let an atmospherical change 
come over you ! ” 

“ When you knocked at my door, months ago,” 
said Richard, ‘‘I didn’t dream you were such a 
satirical little piece, or may be you would n’t have 
got in. You stood there as meek as Moses, with 
your frock reaching only to the tops of your boots. 
You were a deception, Margaret.” 

“ I was dreadfully afraid of you, Richard.” 

‘‘ You are not afraid of me nowadays.” 

‘‘Not a bit.” 

“ You are showing your true colors. That long 
dress, too I I believe the train has turned your 
head.” 

“ But just no^ you said you admired it.” 

“ So I did, and do. It makes you look quite like 
a woman, though.” 

“ I want to be a woman. I would like to be as 
old — as old as Mrs. Methuselah. Was there a 
Mrs. Methuselah ? ” 

“I really forget,” replied Richard, considering. 
“ But there must have been. The old gentleman 
had time enough to have several. I believe, how- 
ever, that history is rather silent aoout his domestic 
nffairs.” 


102 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


‘‘Well, then,” said Margaret, after thinking it 
over, “ I would like to be as old as the youngest 
Mrs. Methuselah.” 

“ That was probably the last one,” remarked 
Richard, with great profundity. “ She was proba- 
bly some giddy young thing of seventy or eighty. 
Those old widowers never take a wife of their own 
age. I should n’t want you to be seventy, Marga- 
ret, — or even eighty.” 

“On the whole, perhaps, I shouldn’t fancy it 
myself. Do you approve of persons marrying 
twice ? ” 

“ N — 0, not at the same time.” 

“ Of course I did n’t mean that,” said Margaret, 
with asperity. “ How provoking you can be ! ” 
But they used to, — in the olden time, don’t 
you know? ” 

“ No, I don’t.” 

Richard burst out laughing. “ Imagine him,” he 
cried, — “ imagine Methuselah in his eight or nine 
hundredth year, dressed in his customary bridal 
suit, with a sprig of century-plant stuck in his but- 
ton-hole I ” 

Richard,” said Margaret solemnly, “ you should 
n’t speak jestingly of a scriptural character,” 

At this Richard broke out again. “But gracious 
me!’ he exclaimed, suddenly checking himsell 
‘ I am forgetting you all this while ’ ” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


103 


Richard hurriedly reversed the mass of plaster 
on the table, and released Margaret’s half-petrified 
fingers. They were shriveled and colorless with tho 
cold. 

“ There is n’t any feeling in it whatever,” said 
Margaret, holding up her hand helplessly, like a 
wounded wing. 

Richard took the fingers between his palms, and 
chafed them smartly for a moment or two to restore 
the suspended circulation. 

“ There, that will do,” said Margaret, withdraw- 
ing her hand. 

“ Are you all right now ? ” 

Yes, thanks ; ” and then she added, smiling, 
I suppose a scientific fellow could explain why my 
fingers seem to be full of hot pins and needles 
ehooting in every direction.” 

“ Tyndall ’s your man — Tyndall on Heat,” an- 
swered Richard, with a laugh, turning to examine 
the result of his work. ‘‘ The mold is perfect, Mar- 
garet. You were a good girl to keep so still.” 

Richard then proceeded to make the cast, which 
was soon placed on the window ledge to harden in 
the sun. When the plaster was set, he cautiously 
chipped off the shell with a chisel, Margaret lean- 
ing over his shoulder to watch the operation, — and 
there was the little white claw, which ever after 


104 


THE STILLWATEB TRAGEDY. 


took such dainty care of his papers, and ultimately 
became so precious to him as a part of Margaret’s 
very self that he would not have exchanged it for 
the Venus of Milo. 

But as yet Richard was far enough from all that. 


X. 


Thbee years glided by with Richard Shackford 
fts swiftly as those periods of time which are imag- 
ined to elapse between the acts of a play. They 
were eventless, untroubled years, and have no his- 
tory. Nevertheless, certain changes had taken 
place. Little by little Mr. Slocum had relinquished 
the supervision of the workshops to Richard, until 
now the affairs of the yard rested chiefly on his 
shoulders. It was like a dream to him when he 
looked directly back to his humble beginning, 
though as he reflected upon it, and retraced his 
progress step by step, he saw there was nothing 
illogical or astonishing in his good fortune. He 
had won it by downright hard work and the faith- 
ful exercise of a sufficing talent. 

In his relations with Margaret, Richard’s attitude 
had undergone no appreciable change. Her chance 
risits to the studio through the week and those 
pleasant, half-idle Saturday afternoons had become 
to both Richard and Margaret a matter of course, 
like the sunlight, or the air they breathed. 


106 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


To Richard, Margaret Slocum at nineteen was 
simply a charming, frank girl, — a type of gracious 
young womanhood. He was conscious of her influ- 
ence ; he was very fond of Margaret ; but she had 
not yet taken on for him that magic individuality 
which makes a woman the one woman in the world 
to her lover. Though Richard had scant experi- 
ence in such matters, he was not wrong in accept- 
ing Margaret as the type of a class of New England 
girls, which, fortunately for New England, is not a 
small class. These young women for the most part 
lead quiet and restricted lives so far as the actuali- 
ties are concerned, but very deep and full lives in 
the world of books and imagination, to which they 
make early escapes. They have the high instincts 
that come of good blood, the physique that natu- 
rally fits fine manners ; and when chance takes one 
of these maidens from her inland country home or 
from some sleepy town on the sea-board, and sets 
her amid the complications of city existence, she is 
an unabashed and unassuming lady. If in Paris, 
she differs from the Parisiennes only in the greater 
delicacy of her lithe beaut}^, her innocence which is 
not ignorance, and her French pronunciation ; if in 
London, she differs from English girls only in the 
matter of rosy cheeks and the rising inflection. 
Should none of these fortunate transplantings be 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


107 


fall her, she always merits them by adorning with 
grace and industry and intelligence the narrower 
sphere to which destiny has assigned her. 

Destiny had assigned Margaret Slocum to a very 
narrow sphere ; it had shut her up in an obscure 
New England manufacturing village, with no soci- 
ety, strictly speaking, and no outlets whatever to 
large experiences. To her father’s affection, Rich- 
ard’s friendship, and her household duties she was 
forced to look for her happiness. If life held wider 
possibilities for her, she had not dreamed of them. 
She looked up to Richard with respect, — perhaps 
with a dash of sentiment in the respect ; there was 
something at once gentle and virile in his character 
which she admired and leaned upon ; in his pres- 
ence the small housekeeping troubles always slipped 
from her ; but her heart, to use a pretty French 
phrase, had not consciously spoken, — possibly it 
had murmured a little, incoherently, to itself, but 
it had not spoken out aloud, as perhaps it would 
have done long ago if an impediment had been 
placed in the way of their intimacy. With all her 
subtler intuitions, Margaret was as far as Richard 
from suspecting the strength and direction of the 
eurrent with which they were drifting. Freedom, 
habit, and the nature of their environment con- 
spired to prolong this mutual lack of perception. 


108 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


The hour had sounded, however, when these two 
were to see each other in a different light. 

One Monday morning in March, at the close of 
the three years in question, as Richard mounted the 
outside staircase leading tcf his studio in the exten- 
sion, the servant-maid beckoned to him from the 
kitchen window. 

Margaret had failed to come to the studio the 
previous Saturday afternoon. Richard had worked 
at cross-purposes and returned to his boarding- 
house vaguely dissatisfied, as always happened to 
him on those rare occasions when she missed the 
appointment ; but he had thought little of the cir- 
cumstance. Nor had he been disturbed on Sunday 
at seeing the Slocum pew vacant during both serv- 
ices. The heavy snow-storm which had begun the 
night before accounted for at least Margaret’s ab- 
sence. 

“ Mr. Slocum told me to tell you that he should 
n’t be in the yard to-day,” said the girl. Miss 
Margaret is very ill.” 

‘‘ 111 ! ” Richard repeated, and the smile with 
which he had leaned over the rail towards the win- 
dow went out instantly on his lip. 

‘‘Dr. Weld was up with her until five o’clock 
this morning,” said the girl, fingering the corner ot 
her apron. “ She ’s that low.” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 109 

‘‘ What is the matter ? ” 

It ’s a fever.” 

‘‘ What kind of fever ? ” 

‘‘ I don’t mind me what the doctor called it. He 
fchinks it come from something wrong with the 
drains.” 

He did n’t say typhoid ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, that ’s the name of it.” 

Richard ascended the stairs with a slow step, and 
a moment afterwards stood stupidly in the middle 
of the workshop. “ Margaret is going to die,” he 
said to himself, giving voice to the dark foreboding 
that had instantly seized upon him, and in a swift 
vision he saw the end of all that simple, fortunate 
existence which he had lived without once reflect- 
ing it could ever end. He mechanically picked up 
a tool from the table, and laid it down again. Then 
he seated himself on the low bench between the 
windows. It was Margaret’s favorite place ; it was 
not four days since she sat there reading to him. 
Already it appeared long ago, — years and years 
ago. He could hardly remember when he did not 
have this heavy weight on his heart. His life of 
yesterday abruptly presented itself to him as a rem- 
iniscence ; he saw now how happy that life had 
been, and how lightly he had accepted it. It took 
to itself all that precious quality of things irrevoc^ 
blv lost. 


110 


THE STILIWATER TRAGEDY. 


The clamor of the bell in the South Church 
striking noon, and the shrilling of the steam-whis- 
tles softened by the thick-falling snow, roused Rich- 
ard from his abstraction. He was surprised that it 
was noon. He rose from the bench and went home 
through the storm, scarcely heeding the sleet that 
snapped in his face like whip-lashes. Margaret was 
going to die ! 

For four or five weeks the world was nearly a 
blank to Richard Shackford. The insidious fever 
that came and went, bringing alternate despair and 
hope to the watchers in the hushed room, was in 
his veins also. He passed the days between his 
lonely lodgings in Lime Street and the studio, do- 
ing nothing, restless and apathetic by turns, but 
with always a poignant sense of anxiety. He 
ceased to take any distinct measurement of time 
further than to note that an interval of months 
seemed to separate Monday from Monday. Mean- 
while, if new patterns had been required by the 
^en, the work in the carving departments would 
have come to a dead lock. 

At length the shadow lifted, and there fell a day 
of soft May weather when Margaret, muffled in 
shawls and as white as death, was seated once 
more in her accustomed 3orner by the west win. 
dow. She had insisted on being brought there the 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Ill 


first practicable moment; nowhere else in the house 
was such sunshine, and Mr. Slocum himself had 
brought her in his arms. She leaned back against 
the pillows, smiling faintly. Her fingers lay locked 
on her lap, and the sunlight showed through the 
narrow transparent palms. It was as if her hands 
were full of blush-roses. 

Richard breathed again, but not with so free a 
heart as before. What if she had died ? He felt 
an immense pity for himself when he k;hought of 
that, and he thought of it continually as the days 
wore on. 

Either a great alteration had wrought itself in 
Margaret, or Richard beheld her through a clearer 
medium during the weeks of convalescence that fol- 
lowed. Was this the slight, sharp-faced girl he 
used to know ? The eyes and the hair were the 
same ; but the smile was deeper, and the pliant 
figure had lost its extreme slimness without a sacri- 
fice to its delicacy. The spring air was filling her 
veins with abundant health, and mantling her 
cheeks with a richer duskiness than they had ever 
worn. Margaret was positively handsome. Her 
beauty had come all in a single morning, like the 
\5rocuses. This beauty began to awe Richard ; it 
had the effect of seeming to remove her further and 
{urther from him. He grew moody and restless 


112 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


when they were together, and was wretched alone. 
His constraint did not escape Margaret. She 
watched him, and wondered at his inexplicable de- 
pression when every one in the household was re- 
joicing in her recovery. By and by this depression 
wounded her, but she was too spirited to show the 
hurt. She always brought a book with her now, 
in her visits to the studio ; it was less awkward to 
read than to sit silent and unspoken to over a piece 
of needle-work. 

‘‘ How very odd you are ! ” said Margaret, one 
afternoon, closing the volume which she had held 
mutely for several minutes, waiting for Richard to 
grasp the fact that she had ceased reading aloud. 

“ I odd ! ” protested Richard, breaking with a 
jerk from one of his long reveries. “In what 
way ? ” 

“ As if I could explain — when you put the ques- 
tion suddenly, like that.” 

“ I did n’t intend to be abrupt. I was curious to 
know. And then the charge itself was a trifle un- 
expected, if you will look at it. But never mind,” 
he added with a smile ; “ think it over, and tell me 
to-morrow.” 

“No, I will tell you now, since you are willing 
to wait.” 

“ I was n’t really willing to wait, but I knew if 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 113 

f did n’t pretend to be I should never get it out of 
you.” 

“ Very well, then ; your duplicity is successful. 
Richard, I am puzzled where to begin with your 
oddities.” 

“ Begin at the beginning.” 

No, I will take the nearest. When a young 
lady is affable enough to read aloud to you, the 
least you can do is to listen to her. That is a def- 
erence you owe to the author, when it happens to 
be Hawthorne, to say nothing of the young lady.” 

“But I have been listening, Margaret. Every 
word ! ” 

“ Where did I leave off ? ” 

“ It was where — where the ” — and Richard 
knitted his brows in the vain effort to remember 
— “ where the young daguerreotypist, what ’s-his- 
name, took up his residence in the House of the 
Seven Gables.” 

“ No, sir ! You stand convicted. It was ten 
pages further on. The last words were,” — and 
Margaret read from the book, — 

“ ‘ Good-night, cousin,’ said Phoebe, strangely af- 
fected by Hepzibah’s manner. ‘ If you begin to 
love me, I am glad.’ ” 

“ There, sir ! what do you say to that ? ” 

Richard did not say anything, but he gave a 
8 


114 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY, 


guilty start, and shot a rapid glance at Margaret 
coolly enjoying her triumph. 

“ In the next place,” she continued soberly, aftei 
a pause, “ I think it very odd in you not to reply 
to me, — oh, not now, for of course you are with- 
out a word of justification; but at other times. 
Frequently, when I speak to you, you look at me 
BO,” making a vacant little face, “ and then sud- 
denly disappear, — I don’t mean bodily, but men- 
tally.” 

“ I am no great talker at best,” said Richard 
with a helpless air. I seldom speak unless I have 
something to say.” 

‘‘ But other people do. I, for instance.” 

“ Oh, you, Margaret ; that is different. When 
you talk I don’t much mind what you are talking 
about.” 

‘‘ I like a neat, delicate compliment like that I ” 

‘‘ What a perverse girl you are to-day ! ” cried 
Richard. ‘‘ You won’t understand me. I mean, 
that your words and your voice are so pleasant they 
make anything interesting, whether it ’s important 
or not.” 

‘‘ If no one were to speak until he had something 
important to communicate,” observed Margaret 
conversation in this world would come to a gen* 
eral stop.” Then she added, with a little ironica 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 115 

imile, ‘‘Even you, Richard, wouldn’t be talking 
all the time.” 

Formerly Margaret’s light sarcasms, even when 
they struck him point-blank, used to amuse Rich- 
ard ; but no w he winced at being merely grazed. 

Margaret went on : “ But it ’s not a bit neces- 
sary to be oracular or instructive — with me. I 
am interested in trivial matters, — in the weather, 
in my spring hat, in what you are going to do next, 
and the like. One must occupy one’s self with 
something. But you, Richard, nowadays you seem 
interested in nothing, and have nothing whatever 
to say.” 

Poor Richard ! He had a great deal to say, but 
he did not know how, nor if it were wise to breathe 
it. Just three little words, murmured or whispered, 
and the whole conditions would be changed. With 
those fateful words uttered, what would be Mar- 
garet’s probable attitude, and what Mr. Slocum’s ? 
Though the line which formerly drew itself be- 
tween employer and employee had grown faint 
with time, it still existed in Richard’s mind, and 
now came to the surface with great distinctness, 
like a word written in sympathetic ink. If he 
spoke, and Margaret was startled or offended, then 
there was' an end to their free, unembarrassed in- 
tercourse, — perhaps an end to all intercourse. By 


116 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


keeping his secret locked in his breast he at least 
secured the present. But that was to risk every- 
thing. Any day somebody might come and carry 
Margaret off under his very eyes. As he reflected 
on this, the shadow of John Dana, the son of the 
rich iron-manufacturer, etched itself sharply upon 
Richard’s imagination. Within the week young 
Dana had declared in the presence of Richard that 
“ Margaret Slocum was an awfully nice little 
thing,” and the Othello in Richard’s blood had 
been set seething. Then his thought glanced from 
John Dana to Mr. Pinkham and the Rev. Arthur 
Langly, both of whom were assiduous visitors at 
the house. The former had lately taken to accom- 
panying Margaret on the piano with his dismal lit- 
tle flute, and the latter was perpetually making a 
moth of himself about her class at Sunday-school. 

Richard stood with the edge of his chisel resting 
idly upon the plaster mold in front of him, ponder- 
ing these things. Presently he heard Margaret’s 
voice, as if somewhere in the distance, saying, — 

“ I have not flnished yet, Richard.” 

“ Go on,” said Richard, falling to work again 
with a kind of galvanic action. Go on, please.” 

‘‘ I have a serious grievance. Frankly, I am 
hurt by your preoccupation and indifference, your 
wrant of openness or cordiality, — I don’t know 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


117 


how to name it. You are the only person who 
seems to be unaware that I escaped a great danger 
a month ago. I am obliged to remember all the 
agreeable hours I have spent in the studio to keep 
ofiE the impression that during my illness you got 
used to not seeing me, and that now my presence 
somehow obstructs your work and annoys you.” 

Richard threw his chisel on the bench, and 
crossed over to the window where Margaret sat. 

‘‘You are as wrong as you can be,” he said, 
looking down on her half-lifted face, from which a 
quick wave of color was subsiding; for the ab- 
ruptness of Richard’s movement had startled her. 

“ I am glad if I am wrong.” 

“ It is nearly an unforgivable thing to be as wide 
of the mark as you are. Oh, Margaret, if you had 
died that time ! ” 

“ You would have been very sorry ? ” 

“Sorry? No. That does n’t express it; one 
outlives mere sorrow. If anything had happened 
to you, I should never have got over it. You don’t 
know what those five weeks were to me. It was a 
kind of death to come to this room day after day, 
and not find you.” 

Margaret rested her eyes thoughtfully on the 
€pace occupied by Richard rather than on Richard 
himself, seeming to look through and beyond him, 
aa if he were incorporeal. 


118 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ You missed me like that ? ” she said slowly. 

“ I missed you like that.” 

Margaret meditated a moment. ‘‘ In the first 
days of my illness I wondered if you did n’t misa 
me a little ; afterwards everything was confused in 
my mind. When I tried to think, I seemed to be 
somebody else, — I seemed to be you waiting for 
me here in the studio. Wasn’t that singular? 
But when I recovered, and returned to my old 
place, I began to suspect I had been bearing your 
anxiety, — that I had been distressed by the ab 
sence to which you had grown accustomed.” 

“ I never got used to it, Margaret. It became 
more and more unendurable. This workshop was 
full of — of your absence. There was n’t a sketch 
or a cast or an object in the room that did n’t re- 
mind me of you, and seem to mock at me for hav- 
ing let the most precious moments of my life slip 
away unheeded. That bit of geranium in the glass 
yonder seemed to say with its dying breath, ^ You 
have cared for neither of us as you ought to have 
cared ; my scent and her goodness have been all 
one to you, — things to take or to leave. It was 
for no merit of yours that she was always planning 
Bomething to make life smoother and brighter for 
you. What had you done to deserve it ? How 
anselfish and generous and good she has been ta 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


119 


jTOu for years and years I What would hare be- 
come of you without her ? She left me here on 
purpose ’ — it ’s the geranium leaf that is speaking 
all the while, Margaret — ‘ to say this to you, and 
to tell you that she was not half appreciated ; and 
now you have lost her ! ’ ” 

As she leaned forward listening, with her lips 
slightly parted, Margaret gave an unconscious little 
approbative nod of the head. Richard’s fanciful 
accusation of himself caused her a singular thrill of 
pleasure. He had never before spoken to her in 
just this fashion ; the subterfuge which his tender- 
ness had employed, the little detour it had made 
in order to get at her, was a novel species of flat- 
tery. She recognized the ring of a distinctly new 
note in his voice ; but, strangely enough, the note 
lost its unfamiliarity in an instant. Margaret rec- 
ognized that fact also, and as she swiftly speculated 
on the phenomenon her pulse went one or two 
strokes faster. 

Oh, you poor boy I ” she said, looking up with 
a laugh and a flush so interfused that they seemed 
one, that geranium took a great ieal upon itself. 
It went quite beyond its instructions, which were 
bimply to remind you of me now and then. One 
Jay, while you were out, — the day before I was 
taken ilk — I placed the flowers on the desk there, 


120 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


perhaps with a kind of premonition that I was 
going away from you for a time.” 

‘‘ What if you had never come back I ” 

I would n’t think of that if I were you,” said 
Margaret softly. 

“ But it haunts me, — that thought. Sometimes 
of a morning, after I unlock the workshop door, I 
stand hesitating, with my hand on the latch, as one 
might hesitate a few seconds before stepping into 
a tomb. There were days last month, Margaret, 
when this chamber did appear to me like a tomb. 
All that was happy in my past seemed to lie buiied 
here ; it was something visible and tangible ; I 
used to steal in and look upon it.” 

Oh, Richard ! ” 

If you only knew what a life I led as a boy in 
my cousin’s house, and what a doleful existence for 
years afterwards, until I found you, perhaps you 
would understand my despair when I saw every- 
thing suddenly slipping away from me. Margaret ! 
the day your father brought you in here, I had all 
I could do not to kneel down at your feet ” — 
Richard stopped short. “ I did n’t mean to tell 
you that,” he added, turning towards the work- 
table. Then he checked himself, and came and 
stood in front of her again. He had gone too far 
not to go further. “ While you were ill I made a 
great discovery.” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


121 


What was that, Richard ? ” 

I discovered that I had been blind for two or 
three years.” 

Blind ? ” repeated Margaret. 

‘‘Stone-blind. I discovered it by suddenly see- 
ing — by seeing that I had loved you all the while, 
Margaret ! Are you offended ? ” 

“ No,” said Margaret, slowly ; she was a moment 
finding her voice to say it. “I — ought I to be 
offended ? ” 

“ Not if you are not ! ” said Richard. 

“ Then I am not. I — I Ve made little discov- 
eries myself,” murmured Margaret, going into full 
mourning with her eyelashes. 

But it was only for an instant. She refused to 
take her happiness shyly or insincerely ; it was 
something too sacred. She was a trifle appalled 
by it, if the truth must be told. If Richard had 
scattered his love-making through the month of 
her convalescence, or if he had made his avowal in 
a different mood, perhaps Margaret might have 
met him with some natural coquetry. But Rich- 
ard’s tone and manner had been such as to suppress 
any instinct of the kind. His declaration, more- 
r'\ er had amazed her. Margaret’s own feelings 
had been more or l^ss plain to her that past month, 
%nd she had diligently disciplined herself to accept 


122 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Richard’s friendship, since it seemed all he had to 
give. Indeed, it had seemed at times as if he had 
not even that. 

When Margaret lifted her eyes to him, a second 
after her confession, they were full of a sweet seri- 
ousness, and she had no thought of withdrawing 
the hands which Richard had taken, and was hold- 
ing lightly, that she might withdraw them if she 
willed. She felt no impulse to do so, though as 
Margaret looked up she saw her father standing a 
few paces behind Richard. 

With an occult sense of another presence in the 
room, Richard turned at the same instant. 

Mr. Slocum had advanced two steps into the 
apartment, and had been brought to a dead halt by 
the surprising tableau in the embrasure of the win- 
dow. He stood motionless, with an account-book 
under his arm, while a dozen expressions ‘ chased 
each other over his countenance. 

“ Mr. Slocum,” said Richard, who saw that only 
one course lay open to him, ‘‘ I love Margaret, and 
I have been telling her.” 

At that the flitting shadows on Mr. Slocum’s face 
settled into one grave look. He did not reply im- 
mediately, but let his glance wander from Marga- 
ret to Richard, and back again to Margaret, slowlj 
digesting the fact. It was evident he had not rej 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 123 

ished it. Meanwhile the girl had risen from the 
chair and was moving towards her father. 

This strikes me as very extraordinary,” he said 
at last. You have never given any intimation 
that such a feeling existed. How long has this 
been going on ? ” 

‘‘ I have always been fond of Margaret, sir ; but 
I was not aware of the strength of the attachment 
until the time of her illness, when I — that is, we 
— came so near losing her.” 

‘‘ And you, Margaret ? ” 

As Mr. Slocum spoke he instinctively put one 
aim around Margaret, who had crept closely to his 
side. 

‘‘ I don’t know when I began to love Richard,” 
said Margaret simply. 

“ You don’t know ! ” 

Perhaps it was while I was ill ; perhaps it was 
^ong before that ; may be my liking for him com- 
menced as far back as the time he made the cast of 
my hand. How can I tell, papa ? I don’t know.” 

‘‘ There appears to be an amazing diffusion of 
ignorance here ! ” 

Margaret bit her lip, and kept still. Her father 
taking it a great deal more seriously than she 
bad expected. A long, awkward silence ensued. 
Richard broke it at last by remarking uneasily 


124 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ Nothing has been or was to be concealed from 
you. Before going to sleep to-night Margaret 
would have told you all I Ve said to her.” 

“ You should have consulted with me before say- 
ing anything.” 

“ I intended to do so, but my words got away 
from me. I hope you will overlook it, sir, and not 
oppose my loving Margaret, though I see as plainly 
as you do that I am not worthy of her.” 

“I have not said that. I base my disapproval 
on entirely different ground. Margaret is too 
young. A girl of seventeen or eighteen ” — 

“ Nineteen,” said Margaret, parenthetically. 

“ Of nineteen, then, — has no business to bother 
her head with such matters. Only yesterday she 
was a child ! ” 

Richard glanced across at Margaret, and endeav- 
ored to recall her as she impressed him that first 
afternoon, when she knocked defiantly at the work- 
shop door to inquire if he wanted any pans and 
pails ; but he was totally unable to reconstruct that 
crude little figure with the glossy black head, all 
eyes and beak, like a young hawk’s. 

‘‘ My objection is impersonal,” continued Mr. 
Slocum. “ I object to the idea. I wish this had 
not happened. I might not have disliked it — 
years hence ; I don’t say ; but I dislike it now.” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 125 

Richard’s face brightened. “ It will be years 
hence in a few years I ” 

Mr. Slocum replied with a slow, grave smile, ‘‘ I 
am not going to be unreasonable in a matter where 
I find Margaret’s happiness concerned ; and youra» 
Richard, I care for that, too ; but I ’ll have no en- 
tanglements. You and she are to be good friends, 
and nothing beyond. I prefer that Margaret should 
not come to the studio so often; you shall see her 
whenever you like at our fireside, of an evening. 
I don’t think the conditions hard.” 

Mr. Slocum had dictated terms, but it was vir- 
tually a surrender. Margaret listened to him with 
her cheek resting against his arm, and a warm light 
nestled down deep under her eyelids. 

Mr. Slocum drew a half -pathetic sigh. “ I pre- 
sume I have not done wisely. Every one bullies 
me. The Marble Workers’ Association runs my 
yard for me, and now my daughter is taken off my 
Hands. By the way, Richard,” he said, interrupt- 
ing himself brusquely, and with an air of dismiss- 
ing the subject, I forgot what I came for. I ’ve 
been thinking over Torrini’s case, and have con- 
cluded that you had better make up his account 
and discharge him.” 

“ Certainly, sir,” replied Richard, with a shadow 
of dissent in his manner, ‘‘ if you wish it.’^ 


126 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ He causes a deal of trouble in the yard.” 

“ I am afraid he does. Such a clean workman 
when he ’s sober ! ” 

“ But he is never sober.” 

“ He has been in a bad way lately, I admit.” 

His example demoralizes the men. I can see 
it day by day.” 

‘‘ I wish he were not so necessary at this mo- 
ment,” observed Richard. I don’t know who 
else could be trusted with the frieze for the Soldiers’ 
Monument. I ’d like to keep him on a week or ten 
days longer. Suppose I have a plain talk with Tor- 
rini?” 

‘‘Surely we have enough good hands to stand the 
loss of one.” 

“ For a special kind of work there is nobody in 
the yard like Torrini. That is one reason why I 
want to hold on to him for a while, and there are 
other reasons.” 

“ Such as what?” 

“ Well, I think it would not be wholly politic to 
break with him just now.” 

“ Why not now as well as any time ? ” 

“ He has lately been elected secretary of the As- 
iociation.” 

“ What of that ? ” 

He has a great deal of influence there.’^ 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


127 


“ If we put him out of the works it seems to me 
he would lose his importance, if he really has any 
to speak of.” 

“ You are mistaken if you doubt it. His posi- 
tion gives him a chance to do much mischief, and 
he would avail himself of it very adroitly, if he 
had a personal grievance.” 

I believe you are actually afraid of the fellow.” 

Richard smiled, “No, I am not afraid of him, 
but I don’t underrate him. The men look up to 
Torrini as a sort of leader ; he ’s an effective 
speaker, and knows very well how to fan a dissat- 
isfaction. Either he or some other disturbing ele- 
ment has recently been at work among the men. 
There ’s considerable grumbling in the yard.” 

“ They are always grumbling, are n’t they ? ” 

“ Most always, but this is more serious than 
usual ; there appears to be a general stir among the 
trades in the village. I don’t understand it clearly. 
The marble workers have been holding secret meet- 
ings.” 

“ They mean business, you think ? ” 

“ They mean increased wages, perhaps.” 

“ But we are now paying from five to ten per 
’^ent. more than any trade in the place. What are 
they after ? ” 

“ So far as I can gather, sir, the finishers and the 


128 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Blab-sawers want an advance, — I don’t know how 
much. Then there ’s some talk about having the 
yard closed an hour earlier on Saturdays. All this 
is merely rumor ; but I am sure there is something 
in it.” 

“ Confound the whole lot ! If we can’t discharge 
a drunken hand without raising the pay of all the 
rest, we had better turn over the entire business to 
the Association. But do as you like, Eichard. You 
see how I am bullied, Margaret. He runs every- 
thing ! Come, dear.” 

And Mr. Slocum quitted the workshop, taking 
Margaret with him. Eichard remained standing 
awhile by the table, in a deep study, with his eyes 
fixed on the floor. He thought of his early days in 
the sepulchral house in Welch’s Court, of his wan- 
derings abroad, his long years of toil since then, of 
this sudden blissful love that had come to him, and 
Mr. Slocum’s generosity. Then he thought of Tor 
rini, and went down into the yard gently to admon 
ish the man, for Eichard’s heart that hour was fuli 
Df kindness for all the world. 


XL 


In spite of Mr. Slocum’s stipulations respecting 
the frequency of Margaret’s visits to the studio, she 
was free to come and go as she liked. It was easy 
for him to say, Be good friends, and nothing be- 
yond ; but after that day in the workshop it was 
impossible for Richard and Margaret to be any- 
thing but lovers. The hollowness of pretending 
otherwise was clear even to Mr. Slocum. In the 
love of a father for a daughter there is always a 
vague jealousy which refuses to render a coherent 
explanation of itself. Mr. Slocum did not escape 
this, but he managed, nevertheless, to accept the in- 
evitable with very fair grace, and presently to con- 
fess to himself that the occurrence which had at 
first taken him aback was the most natural in the 
world. That Margaret and Richard, thrown to- 
gether as they had been, should end by falling in 
love with each other was not a result to justify 
much surprise. Indeed, there was a special propri- 
ety in their doing so. The Shackfords had always 
been reputable people in the village, — down to 
Lemuel Shackford, who of course was an old musk- 


9 


130 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


rat. The family attributes of amiability and hon- 
esty had skipped him, but they had reappeared in 
Richard. It was through his foresight and personal 
energy that the most lucrative branch of the trade 
had been established. His services entitled him to 
a future interest in the business, and Mr. Slocum 
had intended he should have it. Mr. Slocum had 
not dreamed of throwing in Margaret also ; but 
since that addition had suggested itself, it seemed 
to him one of the happy features of the arrange- 
ment. Richard would thus be doubly identified 
with the yard, to which, in fact, he had become 
more necessary than Mr. Slocum himself. 

“He has more backbone with the men fhan I 
have,” acknowledged Mr. Slocum. “ He knows 
how to manage them, and I don’t.” 

As soft as Slocum was a Stillwater proverb. 
Richard certainly had plenty of backbone ; it was 
his only capital. In Mr. Slocum’s estimation it was 
sufficient capital. But Lemuel Shackford was a 
very rich man, and Mr. Slocum could not avoid 
seeing that it would be decent in Richard’s only 
surviving relative if, at this juncture, he were to 
display a little interest in the young fellow’s wel- 
fare. 

“ If he would only offer to advance a few thou 
Mod dollars for Richard,” said Mr. Slocum, on# 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


131 


evening, to Margaret, with whom he had been talk- 
ing over the future, — the property must all come 
to him some time, — it would be a vast satisfaction 
to me to tell the old man that we can get along 
without any of his ill-gotten gains. He made the 
bulk of his fortune during the war, you know. The 
old sea-serpent,” continued Mr. Slocum, with hope- 
less confusion of metaphor, had a hand in fitting 
out more than one blockade-runner. They used to 
talk of a ship that got away from Charleston with 
a cargo of cotton that netted the share-holders 
upwards of two hundred thousand dollars. He 
denies it now, but everybody knows Shackford. 
He ’d betray his country for fifty cents in post- 
age-stamps.” 

“ Oh, papa ! you are too hard on him.” 

In words dropped cursorily from time to time, 
Margaret imparted to Richard the substance of her 
father’s speech, and it set Richard refiecting. It 
was not among the probabilities that Lemuel Shack- 
ford would advance a dollar to establish Richard, 
but if he could induce his cousin even to take the 
matter into consideration, Richard felt that it would 
be a kind of moral support to him circumstanced as 
Ue was. His pride revolted at the idea of coming 
quite unbacked and disowned, as well as empty^ 
handed, to Mr. Slocum. 


132 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


For the last twelve months there had been a ces- 
sation of ordinary courtesies between the two cous- 
ins. They now passed each other on the street 
without recognition. A year previously Mr. Shack- 
ford had fallen ill, and Richard, aware of the ineffi- 
cient domestic arrangements in Welch’s Court, had 
gone to the house out of sheer pity. The old man 
was in bed, and weak with fever, but at seeing 
Richard he managed to raise himself on one elbow. 

‘‘ Oh, it ’s you ! ” he exclaimed, mockingly. 
“ When a rich man is sick the anxious heirs crowd 
around him ; but they ’re twice as honestly anxious 
when he is perfectly well.” 

‘‘ I came to see if I could do anything for you ! ” 
cried Richard, with a ferocious glare, and in a tone 
that went curiously with his words, and shook to 
the foundations his character of Good Samaritan. 

“ The only thing you can do for me is to go 
away.” 

“ I ’ll do that with pleasure,” retorted Richard 
bitterly. 

And Richard went, vowing he would never set 
foot across the threshold again. He could not help 
having ugly thoughts. Why should all the efforts 
feo bring about a reconciliation and all the forbear- 
ance be on his side ? Thenceforth the crabbed old 
man might go to perdition if he wanted to. 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 133 

And now here was Richard meditating a yisit to 
that same house to beg a favor ! 

Nothing but his love for Margaret could have 
dragged him to such a banquet of humble-pie as he 
knew was spread for his delectation, the morning 
he passed up the main street of Stillwater and 
turned into Welch’s Court. 

As Richard laid his hand on the latch of the gate, 
Mr. Shackford, who was digging in the front gar- 
den, looked up and saw him. Without paying any 
heed to Richard’s amicable salutation, the old man 
left the shovel sticking ii* the sod, and walked stiffly 
into the house. At another moment this would 
have amused Richard, but now he gravely followed 
his kinsman, and overtook him at the foot of the 
staircase. 

‘‘ Cousin Shackford, can you spare me five or ten 
minutes ? ” 

‘‘ Don’t know as I can,” said Mr. Shackford, with 
one foot on the lower stair. Time is valuable. 
What do you want? You want something.” 

Certainly, or I would n’t think of trespassing 
on your time.” 

‘‘ Has Slocum thrown you over ? ” inquired the 
old man, turning quickly. A straw which he held 
between his thin lips helped to give him a singu- 
arly alert expression. 


134 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


‘‘No; Mr. Slocum and I agree the best in the 
world. I want to talk with you briefly on certain 
matters ; I want to be on decent terms with you, if 
you will let me.” 

“ Decent terms means money, does n’t it? ” asked 
Mr. Shackford, with a face as wary and lean as a 
shark’s. 

I do wish to talk about money, among other 
things,” returned Richard, whom this brutal direct- 
ness disconcerted a little, — “ money on satisfactory 
security.” 

“ You can get it anywhere with that.” 

“ So I might, and be asking no favor ; but I 
would rather get it of you, and consider it an obli- 
gation.” 

“ I would rather you would n’t.” 

“ Listen to me a moment.” 

“ Well, I’m listening.” 

Mr. Shackford stood in an attitude of attention, 
with his head canted on one side, his eyes fixed on 
the ceiling, and the straw between his teeth tilted 
up at an angle of forty degrees. 

“ I have, as you know, worked my way in the 
marble yard to the position of general manager,” 
began Richard. 

‘•I did n’t know,” said Mr. Shackford, “but \ 
understand. You ’re a sort of head grave-ston« 
maker.” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


135 


“ That is taking rather a gloomy view of it,” 
Raid Richard, but no matter. The point is, I hold 
a responsible position, and I now have a chance to 
purchase a share in the works.” 

“ Slocum is willing to take you in, eh ? ” 

«Yes.” 

“ Then the concern is hit.” 

Hit?” 

Slocum is going into bankruptcy.” 

“ You are wrong there. The yard was never so 
prosperous ; the coming year we shall coin money 
like a mint.” 

“ You ought to know,” said Mr. Shackford, ru- 
minatively. “ A thing as good as a mint must be a 
good thing.” 

“If I were a partner in the business, I could 
marry Margaret.” 

“ Who ’s Margaret ? 

“ Mr. Slocum’s daughter.” 

“ That ’s where the wind is ! Now how much 
capital would it take to do all that?” inquired Mr. 
Shackford, with an air of affable speculation. 

“ Three or four thousand dollars, — perhaps 
less.” 

“Well, I would n’o give three or four cents to 
have you many Slocum’s daughter. Richard, you 
can’t pull any chestnurs out of the fire with my 
paw.” 


186 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Mr. Shackford’s interrogations and his more than 
usual conciliatory manner had* lighted a hope which 
Richard had not brought with him. Its sudden 
extinguishment was in consequence doubly aggra- 
vating. 

“ Slocum’s daughter 1 ” repeated Mr. Shackford. 
** I ’d as soon you would marry Crazy Nan up at the 
work-house.” 

The association of Crazy Nan with Margaret sent 
a red flush into Richard’s cheek. He turned an- 
grily towards the door, and then halted, recollecting 
the resolves he had made not to lose his temper, 
come what would. If the interview was to end 
there it had better not have taken place. 

“ I had no expectation that you would assist me 
pecuniarily,” said Richard, after a moment. ‘‘ Let 
us drop the money question ; it should n’t have come 
up between us. I want you to aid me, not by lend- 
ing me money, but by giving me your countenance 
as the head of the family, — by showing a natural 
interest in my affairs, and seeming disposed to pro- 
mote them.” 

“ By just seeming ? ” 

“ That is really all I desire. If you were to pro- 
pose to put capital into the concern, Mr. Slocum 
would refuse it.” 

Slocum would refuse it 1 Why in the devi. 
should he refuse it ? ” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


137 


Because ” — Richard hesitated, finding himself 
Jinexpectedly on delicate ground — because he 
would not care to enter into business relations with 
you, under the circumstances.” 

Mr. Shackford removed the straw from his 
mouth, and holding it between his thumb and fore- 
finger peered steadily through his half-closed eye- 
lids at Richard. 

‘‘ I don’t understand you.” 

The dispute you had long ago, over the piece 
of meadow land behind the marble yard. Mr. Slo- 
cum felt that you bore on him rather heavily in 
that matter, and has not quite forgiven you for forc- 
ing him to rebuild the sheds.” 

“ Bother Slocum and his sheds I I understand 
him. What I don’t understand is I am to of- 

fer Slocum three or four thousand dollars to set you 
up, and he is to decline to take it. Is that it ? ” 

“ That is not it at all,” returned Richard. My 
statement was this : If you were to propose pur- 
chasing a share for me in the works, Mr. Slocum 
would not entertain the proposition, thinking — as 
I don’t think — that he would mortify you by the 
refusal of your money.” 

The only way Slocum could mortify me would 
be by getting hold of it. Bui what are you driving 
Ht, anyhow? In one breath you demand several 


138 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


thousand dollars, and in the next breath you tell 
me that nobody expects it, or wants it, or could bo 
induced to have it on any terms. Perhaps you will 
inform me what you are here for.” 

That is what you will never discover ! ” cried 
Richard. It is not in you to comprehend the ties 
of sympathy that ought to hold between two persons 
situated as we are. In most families this sympathy 
binds closely at times, — at christenings, or burials, 
or when some member is about to fake an impor- 
tant step in life. Generally speaking, blood is 
thicker than water ; but your blood, cousin Shack- 
ford, seems to be a good deal thinner. I came here 
to consult with you as my sole remaining kinsman, 
as one authorized by years and position to give me 
wise counsel and kindly encouragement at the turn- 
ing point in my fortune. I did n’t wish to go 
among those people like a tramp, with neither kith 
nor kin to say a word for me. Of course you don’t 
understand that. How should you ? A sentiment 
of that kind is something quite beyond your concep- 
tion.” 

Richard’s words went into one ear and out the 
other, without seeming for an instant to arrest Mr. 
Shackford’s attention. The idea of Slocum not ac- 
cepting money — anybody’s money — presented it- 
self to Mr. Shackford in so facetious a light aa 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


139 


nearly to throw him into good humor. His foot 
was on the first step of the staircase, which he now 
began slowly to mount, giving vent, as he ascended, 
to a series of indescribable chuckles. At the top cf 
the landing he halted, and leaned over the rail. 

‘‘To think of Slocum refusing, — that ’s a good 
one ! ” 

In the midst of his jocularity a sudden thought 
seemed to strike Mr. Shackford ; his features under- 
went a swift transformation, jy;id as he grasped the 
rail in front of him with both hands a malicious 
cunning writhed and squirmed in every wrinkle of 
his face. 

“Sir!” he shrieked, “it was a trap b Slocum 
would have taken it I If I had been ass enough to 
make any such offer, he would have jumped at it. 
What do you and Slocum take me for? You’re a 
pair of rascals I ” 

Richard staggered back, bewildered and blinded, 
as if he had received a blow in the eyes. 

“ No,” continued Mr. Shackford, with a gesture 
of intense contempt, “ you are less than rascals 
You are fools. A rascal has to have brains I ” 

“You shameless old man!” cried Richard, as 
goon as he could get his voice. 

To do Mr. Shackford justice, he was thoroughly 
convinced that Richard had lent himself to a pre- 


140 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


posterons attempt to obtain money from him. The 
absence of ordinary shrewdness in the method 
stamped it at once as belonging to Slocum, of whose 
mental calibre Mr. Shackford entertained no flat- 
tering estimate. 

“ Slocum 1 ” he muttered, grinding the word be- 
tween his teeth. “ Family ties ! ” he cried, hurl- 
ing the words scornfully oyer the banister as he 
disappeared into one of the upper chambers. 

Richard stood with one hand on the newel- post, 
white at the lip with rage. For a second he had a 
wild impulse to spring up the staircase, but, con- 
trolling this, he turned and hurried out of the 
house. 

At the gate he brushed roughly against a girl, 
who halted and stared. It was a strange thing 
to see Mr. Richard Shackford, who always had a 
pleasant word for a body, go by in that blind, ex- 
cited fashion, striking one fist into the palm of the 
other hand, and talking to his own self ! Mary 
Hennessey watched him until he wheeled out of 
Welch’s Court, and then picking up her basket, 
which she had rested on the fence, went her way 


XII. 


At the main entrance to the marble works Rich- 
ard nearly walked over a man who was coming out, 
intently mopping his forehead with a very dirty 
calico handkerchief. It was an English stone-dresser 
named Denyven. Richard did not recognize him 
at first. 

That you, Denyven I • . . what has hap- 
pened?” 

“ I ’ve ’ad a bit of a scrimmage, sir.” 

“ A scrimmage in the yard, in work hours I ” 

The man nodded. 

“ With whom ? ” 

“ Torrini, sir, — he ’s awful bad this day.” 

“ Torrini, — it is always Torrini ! It seems odd 
that one man should be everlastingly at the bottom 
of everything wrong. How did it happen ? Give 
it to me straight, Denyven ; I don’t want a crooked 
story. This thing has got to stop in Slocum’s 
Yard.” 

“ The way of it was this, sir : Torrini was n’t at 
the shop the morning. He ’ad a day off.” 

I know.” 


142 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


But about one o’clock, sir, he come in the yard. 
He ’ad been at the public ’ouse, sir, and he was 
hummin’. First he went among the carvers, talk- 
ing Hitalian to ’em and making ’em laugh, though 
he was in a precious bad humor hisself. By and by 
he come over to where me and my mates was, and 
began chaffin’ us, which we did n’t mind it, seeing 
he was ’eavy in the ’ead. He was as clear as a fog- 
’orn all the same. But when he took to banging 
the tools on the blocks, I sings out, ‘ ’ Ands ! ’ 
and then he fetched me a clip. I was never look- 
ing for nothing less than that he ’d hit me. I was 
a smiling at the hinstant.” 

‘‘ He must be drunker than usual.” 

Hevidently, sir. I went down between two 
slabs as soft as you please. When I got on my 
pins, I was for choking him a bit, but my mates 
hauled us apart. That’s the ’ole of it, sir. They ’ll 
tell you the same within.” 

‘‘ Are you hurt, Denyven ? ” 

“ Only a bit of a scratch over the heye, sir, — 
and the nose,” and the man began mopping his 
brow tenderly. “ I ’d like to ’ave that Hitalian for 
about ten minutes, some day when he ’s sober, over 
pnder on the green.” 

“ I ’m afraid he would make the ten minutei 
seem long to you.” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


143 


Well, sir, I ’d willingly let him try his ’and.” 

‘‘How is it, Denyven,” said Richard, “ that you, 
and sensible workingmen like you, have permitted 
such a quarrelsome and irresponsible fellow to be- 
come a leader in the Association ? He ’s secretary, 
or something, is n’Jb he ? ” 

“ Well, sir, he writes an uncommonly clean fist, 
and then he ’s a born horator. He ’s up to all the 
parli’mentary dodges. Must ’ave ’ad no end of 
hexperience in them sort of things on the other 
side.” 

“ No doubt, — and that accounts for him being 
over here.” 

“ As for horganizing a meeting, sir ” — 

“ I know. Torrini has a great deal of that kind 
of ability ; perhaps a trifle too much for his own 
good or anybody else’s. There was never any 
trouble to speak of among the trades in Stillwater 
till he and two or three others came here with for- 
eign grievances. These men get three times the 
pay they ever received in their own land, and are 
treated like human beings for the first time in their 
lives. But what do they do ? They squander a 
quarter of their week’s wages at the tavern, — no 
rich man could afford to put a fourth of his income 
into drink, — and make windy speeches at the 
Union. I don’t say all of them, but too many of 


144 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


them. The other night, I understand, Torrini 
compared Mr. Slocum to Nero, — Mr. Slocum, the 
fairest and gentlest man that ever breathed 1 What 
rubbish I ’’ > 

It was n’t just that way, sir. His words was, 
and I ’eard him, — ‘ from Nero down to Slocum. ’ ” 

“ It amounts to the same thing, and is enough to 
make one laugh, if it didn’t make one want to 
swear. I hear that that was a very lively meeting 
the other night. What was that nonsense about 
‘ the privileged class ’ ? ” 

Well, there is a privileged class in the States.” 

“ So there is, but it ’s a large class, Denyven. 
Every soul of us has the privilege of bettering our 
condition if we have the brain and the industry to 
do it. Energy and intelligence come to the front, 
and have the right to be there. A skillful work- 
man gets double the pay of a bungler, and deserves 
it. Of course there will always be rich and poor, 
and sick and sound, and I don’t see how that can be 
changed. But no door is shut against ability, black 
or white. Before the year 2400 we shall have ? 
chrome-yellow president and a black-and-tan secre- 
tary of the treasury. But, seriously, Denyven, 
whoever talks about privileged classes here does it 
to make mischief. There are certain small politi- 
cians who reap their harvest in times of public con 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


145 


fusion, just as pickpockets do. Nobody can play 
the tyrant or the bully in this country, — not even 
a workingman. Here ’s the Association dead against 
an employer who, two years ago, ran his yard full- 
handed for a" twelvemonth at a loss, rather than 
shut down, as every other mill and factory in Still- 
water did. For years and years the Association 
has prevented this employer from training more 
than two apprentices annually. The result is, 
eighty hands find work, instead of a hundred and 
eighty. Now, that can’t last.” 

It keeps wages fixed in Stillwater, sir.” 

“It keeps out a hundred workmen. It sends 
away capital.” 

“ Torrini says, sir ” — 

“ Steer clear of Torrini and what he says. He ’s 
a dangerous fellow — for his friends. It is hand- 
some in you, Denyven, to speak up for him — with 
that eye of yours.” 

“ Oh, I don’t love the man, when it comes to 
that ; but there ’s no denying he ’s right smart,” 
replied Denyven, who occasionally marred his ver- 
nacular with Americanisms. “ The Association 
could n’t do without him.” 

“ But Slocum’s Yard can,” said Ricnard, irritated 
i,o observe the influence Torrini exerted on even 
Buch men as Denyven. 

10 


146 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ That’s between you and him, sir, of course, 
but ” — 

‘‘ But what ? ” 

‘^Well, sir, I can’t say hexactly; but if I was 
you I would bide a bit.” 

“ No, I think Torrini’s time has come.” 

“ I don’t make bold to advise you, sir. I merely 
throws out the hobservation.” 

With that Denyven departed to apply to hia 
bruises such herbs and simples as a long experience 
had taught him to be efficacious. 

He had gone only a few rods, however, when it 
occurred to him that there were probabilities of a 
stormy scene in the yard ; so he turned on his 
tracks, and followed Richard Shackford. 

Torrini was a Neapolitan, who had come to this 
country seven or eight years before. He was a man 
above the average intelligence of his class ; a mar- 
ble worker by trade, but he had been a fisherman, 
a mountain guide among the Abruzzi, a soldier in 
the papal guard, and what not, and had contrived 
to pick up two or three languages, among the rest 
English, which he spoke with purity. His lingual 
gift was one of his misfortunes. 

Among the exotics in Stillwater, which even 
boasted a featureless Celestial, who had unobtru 
lively extinguished himself with a stove-pipe hat 


THE STILL 


Torrini was tlie only fi 

resqueness. With his swarthy complexion and 
large, indolent eyes, in which a southern ferocity 
slept lightly, he seemed to Richard a piece out of 
his own foreign experien-ce. To him Torrini waa 
the cr^^stallization of Italy, or so much of that Italy 
as Richard had caught a glimpse of at Genoa. To 
the town-folks Torrini perhaps vaguely suggested 
hand-organs and eleemosynary pennies ; but Rich- 
ard never looked at the straight-limbed, handsome 
fellow without recalling the Phrygian-capped sail- 
ors of the Mediterranean. On this account, and 
for other reasons, Richard had taken a great fancy 
to the man. Torrini had worked in the ornamental 
department from the first, and was a rapid and ex- 
pert carver when he chose. He had carried himself 
steadily enough in the beginning, but in these later 
days, as Mr. Slocum had stated, he was scarcely 
ever sober. Richard had stood between him and 
his discharge on several occasions, partly because he 
was so skillful a worlonan, and partly through pity 
for his wife and children, who were unable to speak 
a word of English. But Torrini’s influence on the 
men in the yard, — especially on the younger hands, 
who needed quite other influences, — and his intem- 
perate speeches at the trades-union, where he had 
recently gained a kind of ascendency by his daring 
were producing the worst effects. 


148 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


At another hour Elchard might have been 
dined to condone this last offense, as he had con- 
doned others ; but when he parted from Denyven, 
Richard’s heart was still hot with his cousin’s in- 
sult. As he turned into the yard, not with his usual 
swinging gait, but with a quick, wide step, there 
was an unpleasant dilation about young Shack- 
ford’s nostrils. 

Torrini was seated on a block of granite in front 
of the upper sheds, flourishing a small chisel in one 
hand and addressing the men, a number of whom 
had stopped work to listen to him. At sight of 
Richard they made a show of handling their tools, 
but it was so clear something grave was going to 
happen that the pretense fell through. They re- 
mained motionless, resting on their mallets, with 
their eyes turned towards Richard. Torrini fol- 
lowed the general glance, and paused in his ha- 
rangue. 

“ Talk of the devil ! ” he muttered, and then, ap- 
parently continuing the thread of his discourse, 
broke into a strain of noisy declamation. 

Richard walked up to him quietly. 

Torrini,” he said, “you can’t be allowed ta 
Bpeak here, you know.” 

“ I can speak where I like,” replied Torrim 
gravely. He was drunk, but the intoxication wa» 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 149 

^lob in his tongue. His head, as Denyven had as- 
serted, was as clear as a fog-horn. 

‘‘ When you are sober, you can come to the desk 
and get your pay and your kit. You are discharged 
from the yard.” 

Richard was standing within two paces of the 
man, who looked up with an uncertain smile, as 
if he had not quite taken in the sense of the 
words. Then, suddenly straightening himself, he 
exclaimed, — 

Slocum don’t dare do it 1 ” 

But I do.” 

‘‘ You ! ” 

When I do a thing Mr. Slocum backs me.” 

But who backs Slocum, — the Association, may 
be?” 

‘‘ Certainly the Association ought to. I want 
you to leave the yard now.” 

He backs Slocum,” said Torrini, settling him- 
self on the block again, and Slocum backs down,” 
at which there was a laugh among the men. 

Richard made a step forward. 

Hands off ! ” cried a voice from under the 
sheds. 

‘‘ Who said that? ” demanded Richard, wheeling 
around. No one answered, but Richard had recog- 
nized Durgin’s voice “ Torrini, if you don’t quit 


160 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


the yard in two minutes by the clock yonder, 1 
shall put you out by the neck. Do you under- 
stand ? ” 

Torrini glared about him confusedly for a mo- 
ment, and broke into voluble Italian ; then, with- 
out a warning gesture, sprung to his feet and struck 
at Richard. A straight red line, running vertically 
the length of his cheek, showed where the chisel 
had grazed him. The shops were instantly in a 
tumult, the men dropping their tools and stumbling 
over the blocks, with cries of Keep them apart ! ” 
“ Shame on you ! ” Look out, Mr. Shackford ! ’’ 

Is it mad ye are, Torrany ! ” cried Michael 
Hennessey, hurrying from the saw-bench. Durgiu 
held him back by the shoulders. 

Let them alone,” said Durgin. 

The flat steel flashed again in the sunlight, but 
fell harmlessly, and before the blow could be re- 
peated Richard had knitted his fingers in Torrini’s 
neckerchief and twisted it so tightly that the man 
gasped. Holding him by this, Richard dragged 
Torrini across the yard, and let him drop on the 
sidewalk outside the gate, where he lay in a heap 
inert. 

That was nate,” said Michael Hennessey, sen- 
fcentiously. 

Richard stood leaning on the gate-post to recovei 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 161 

liis breath. His face was colorless, and the crimson 
line defined itself sharply against the pallor; but 
the rage was dead within him. It had been one Of 
his own kind of rages, — like lightning out of a 
blue sky. As he stood there a smile was slowly 
gathering on his lip. 

A score or two of the men had followed him, and 
now lounged in a half-circle a few paces in the rear. 
When Richard was aware of their presence, the 
glow came into his eyes again. 

“ Who ordered you to knock off work ? ” 

That was a foul blow of Torrini’s, sir,” said 
Stevens, stepping forward, “ and I for one come to 
see fair play.” 

‘‘Give us your ’and, mate!” cried Denyven ; 
“ there ’s a pair of us.” 

“ Thanks,” said Richard, softening at once, “but 
there’s no need. Every man can go to his job. 
Denyven may stay, if he likes.” 

The men lingered a moment, irresolute, and re- 
turned to the sheds in silence. 

Presently Torrini stretched out one leg, then the 
o:her, and slowly rose to his feet, giving a stupid 
glance at his empty hands as he did so. 

“ Here ’s your tool,” said Richard, stirring the 
'ihisel with the toe of his boot, “ if that ’s what 
fou ’re looking for.” 


152 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Torrini advanced a step as if to pick it up, then 
appeared to alter his mind, hesitated perhaps a 
dozen seconds, and turning abruptly on his heel 
walked down the street without a stagger. 

‘‘I think his legs is shut off from the rest of 
his body by water-tight compartments,’’ remarked 
Denyven, regarding Torrini’s steady gait with min- 
gled amusement and envy. ‘‘ Are you hurt, sir? ” 
“ Only a bit of a scratch over the heye,” replied 
Richard, with a laugh. 

As I hobserved just now to Mr. Stevens, sir, 
there ’s a pair of us I ” 


XIII. 


After a turn through the shops to assure him 
self that order was restored, Richard withdrew in 
the direction of his studio. Margaret was standing 
at the head of the stairs, half hidden by the scarlet 
creeper which draped that end of the veranda. 

‘‘ What are you doing there ? ” said Richard 
looking up with a bright smile. 

‘‘ Oh, Richard, I saw it all ! ” 

‘‘You did n’t see anything worth having white 
cheeks about.” 

“ But he struck you . . . with the knife, did he 
not ? ” said Margaret, clinging to his arm anxiously. 

“ He did n’t have a knife, dear ; only a small 
chisel, which could n’t hurt any one. See for your- 
self ; it is merely a cat-scratch.” 

Margaret satisfied herself that it was nothing 
more; but she nevertheless insisted on leading 
Richard into the workshop, and soothing the slight 
inflammation with her handkerchief dipped in a.r- 
nica and water. The elusive faint fragrance of 
Margaret’s hair as she busied herself about him 
would of itself have consoled Richard for a deep 


154 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


wound. All this pretty solicitude and ministration 
was new and sweet to him, and when the arnica 
turned out to be cologne, and scorched his cheek, 
Margaret’s remorse was so delicious that Richard 
half wished the mixture had been aquafortis. 

“ You should n’t have been looking into the 
yard,” he said. ‘‘ If I had known that you were 
watching us it would have distracted me. When 
I am thinking of you I cannot think of anything 
else, and I had need of my wits for a moment.” 

“ I happened to be on the veranda, and was too 
frightened to go away. Why did you quarrel ? ” 

In giving Margaret an account of the matter, 
Richard refrained from any mention of his humil- 
iating visit to Welch’s Court that morning. He 
could neither speak of it nor reflect upon it with 
composure. The cloud which shadowed his feat- 
ures from time to time was attributed by Marga- 
ret to the affair in the yard. 

‘‘ But this is the end of it, is it not ? ” she asked, 
with troubled eyes. You will not have any fur- 
ther Avords with him ? ” 

“You needn’t w’orry. If Torrini had not been 
drinking he would never have lifted his hand 
against me. Wlien he conies out of his present 
itate, he will be heartily ashamed of himself. Ilia 
tongue is the only malicious part of him. If 


THE STIL1.WATER TRAGEDY. 


155 


had n’t a taste for drink and oratory, — if he was 
Dot ‘ a born horator,’ as Denyven calls him, — he 
would do well enough.” 

“No, Richard, he’s a dreadful man. I shall 
never forget his face, — it was some wild animal’s. 
And you, Richard,” added Margaret softly, “ it 
grieved me to see joi\ look like that.” 

“ I was wolfish for a moment, I suppose. Things 
had gone wrong generally. But if you are going 
to scold me, Margaret, I would rather have some 
more — arnica.” 

“ I am not going to scold ; but while you stood 
there, so white and terrible, — so unlike yourself, 
— I felt that I did not know you, Richard. Of 
course you had to defend yourself when the man 
attacked you, but I thought for an instant you 
would kill him.” 

“ Not I,” said Richard uneasily, dreading any- 
thing like a rebuke from Margaret. “ I am morti- 
fied that I gave up to my anger. There was no 
occasion.” 

“ If an intoxicated person were to wander into 
the yard, papa would send for a constable, and 
have the person removed.” 

“ Your father is an elderly man,’^ returned 
Richard, not relishing this oblique criticism of his 
own simpler method. “ What would be proper in 


156 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY, 


his case would be considered cowardly in mine. It 
was my duty to discharge the fellow, and not let 
him dispute my authority. I ought to have been 
cooler, of course. But I should have lost caste and 
influence with the men if I had shown the least 
personal fear of Torrini, — if, for example, I had 
summoned somebody else to do what I did n’t dare 
do myself. I was brought up in the yard, remem- 
ber, and to a certain extent I have to submit to 
being weighed in the yard’s own scales.” 

“ But a thing cannot be weighed in a scale 
incapable of containing it,” answered Margaret. 
“ The judgment of these rough, uninstructed men 
is too narrow for such as you. They quarrel and 
fight among themselves, and have their ideas of 
daring ; but there is a higher sort of bravery, the 
bravery of self-control, which I fancy they do not 
understand very well ; so their opinion of it is not 
worth considering. However, you know better 
than I.” 

‘‘ No, I do not,” said Richard. ‘‘ Your instinct 
is finer than my reason. But you are scolding me^ 
Margaret.” 

No, I am loving you,” she said softly. How 
can 1 do that more faithfully than by being dis- 
satisfied with anything but the best in you ? ” 

I was n’t at my best a while ago ? ” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


157 


“No, Richard.” 

“ I can never hope to be worthj^ of you.” 

But Margaret protested against that. Having 
forced him to look at his action through her eyes, 
she outdid him in humility, and then the conversa- 
tion drifted off into half-breathed nothings, which, 
though they were satisfactory enough to these two, 
would have made a third person yawn. 

The occurrence at Slocum’s Yard was hotly dis- 
cussed that night at the Stillwater hotel. Discus- 
sions in that long, low bar-room, where the latest 
village scandal always came to receive the finish- 
ing gloss, were apt to be hot. In their criticism 
of outside men and measures, as well as in their 
mutual vivisections, there was an unflinching di- 
rectness among Mr. Snelling’s guests which is not 
to be found in more artificial grades of society. 
The popular verdict on young Shackford’s conduct 
was, as might not have been predicted, strongly in 
his favor. He had displayed pluck, and pluck of 
the tougher fibre was a quality held in so high es- 
teem in Stillwater that any manifestation of it 
commanded respect. And young Shackford had 
shown a great deal; he had made short work of 
the most formidable man in the yard, and given 
the rest to understand that he was not to be tam- 
pered with. This had taken many by surprise^ 


158 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


for hitherto an imperturbable amiability had been 
the leading characteristic of Slocum’s manager. 

I did n’t think he had it in him,” declared Dex- 
ter. 

“Well, ye might,” replied Michael Hennessey. 
“ Look at the lad’s eye, and the muscles of him. 
He stands on his two legs like a monumint, so he 
does.” - 

‘‘ Never saw a monument with two legs, Mike.” 

“ Did n’t ye ? Wait till ye ’re lay in’ at the foot 
of one. But ye’ll wait many a day, me bo}^ 
Ye ’ll be lucky if ye ’re supploid with a head-stone 
made out of a dale-board.” 

‘‘ Could n’t get a wooden head-stone short of 
Ireland, Mike,” retorted Dexter, with a laugh. 
“ You ’d have to import it.” 

‘‘ An’ so I will ; but it won’t be got over in time, 
if ye go on interruptin’ gintlemen when they ’re 
discoursin’. What was I sayin’, any way, when 
the blackguard chipped in ? ” continued Mr. Hen- 
nessey, appealing to the company, as he emptied the 
ashes from his pipe by knocking the bowl on the 
Bide of his chair. 

“ You Avas talking of Dick Shackford’s muscle,’ 
said Durgin ‘‘ and you never talked wider of the 
mark. It does n’t take much muscle, or much 
courage either, to knock a man about Avhen he 
in liquor. The two was n’t fairly matched ” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


159 


“ You are right there, Durgin,” said Stevens, 
aying down his newspaper. They were n’t fairly 
matched. Both men have the same pounds and 
inches, but Torrini had a weapon and that mad 
strength that comes to some folks with drink. If 
Shackford had n’t taken a neat twist on the neck- 
cloth, he would n’t have got off with a scratch.” 

“ Shackford had no call to lay hands on him.” 

“ There you are wrong, Durgin,” replied Ste- 
vens. Torrini had no call in the yard ; he was 
making a nuisance of himself. Shackford spoke to 
him fair, and told him to go, and when he did n’t 
go Shackford put him out; and he put him out 
handsomely, — ‘ with neatness and dispatch,’ as 
Slocum’s prospectuses has it.” 

“ He was right all the time,” said Piggott. ‘Hie 
did n’t strike Torrini before or after he was down, 
and stood at the gate like a gentleman, ready to 
give Torrini his change if he wanted it.” 

‘‘ Torrini did n’t want it,” observed Jemmy 
Willson. Ther’ is n’t nothing mean about Tor- 
rini.” 

But he ’ad a dozen minds about coming back,” 
said Denyven. 

‘‘We ought to have got him out of the place 
quietly,” said Jeff Stavers ; “ that was our end of 
the mistake. He is not a bad fellow, but he should 
n’t drink.” 


160 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


He was crazy to come to the yard.” 

When a man ’as a day off,” observed Deny 
ven, “and the beer is n’t narsty, he ’ad better 
Btick to the public ’ouse.” 

“ Oh, you ! ” exclaimed Durgin. “ Your opin- 
ion don’t weigh. You took a black eye of him.” 

“ Yes, I took a black heye, — and I can give one, 
in a hemergency. Yes, I gives and takes.” 

“ That ’s where we differ,” returned Durgin. “ I 
do a more genteel business ; I give, and don’t 
take.” 

“ Unless you ’re uncommon careful,” said Deny- 
ven, pulling away at his pipe, “ you ’ll find your- 
self some day henlarging your business.” 

Durgin pushed back his stool. 

“ Gentlemen ! gentlemen ! ” interposed Mr. Snell- 
iiig, appearing from behind the bar with a lemon- 
squeezer in his hand, “ we ’ll have no black eyes 
here that was n’t born so. I am partial to them 
myself when nature gives them ; and I propose the 
health of Miss Molly Hennessey,” with> sly glance 
at Durgin, who colored, “to be drank at the ex- 
pense of the house. Name your taps, gentlemen.” 

“ Snelling, me boy, ye ’d win the bird from the 
bush with yer beguilin’ ways. Ye ’ve brought 
proud tears to the eyes of an aged parent, and I ’1) 
take a sup out of that high-showldered bottle which 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 161 

you kape under the counter for the gentle-folks in 
the other room.” 

A general laugh greeted Mr. Hennessey’s selec- 
tion, and peace was restored ; but the majority of 
those present were workmen from Slocum’s, and the 
event of the afternoon remained the uppermost 
theme. 

‘‘ Shackford is a different build from Slocum,” 
said Piggott. 

“ I guess the yard will find that out when he 
gets to be proprietor,” rejoined Durgin, clicking 
his spoon against the empty glass to attract Snell- 
ing’s attention. 

Going to be proprietor, is he? ” 

Some day or other,” answered Durgin. “ First 
he ’ll step into the business, and then into the fam- 
ily. He ’s had his eye on Slocum’s girl these four 
or five years. Got a cast of her fist up in his 
workshop. Leave Dick Shackford alone for lining 
his nest and making it soft all round.” 

Why should n’t he?” asked Stevens. ‘‘He 
deserves a good girl, and there ’s none better. If 
sickness or any sort of trouble comes to a poor 
man’s door, she ’s never far off with her kind words 
and them things the rich have when they are laid 
up.” 

“ Oh, the girl is well enough.” 

11 


162 THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 

You could n’t say less. Before your mother 
died,” — Mrs. Durgin had died the previous au- 
tumn, — ‘‘I see that angil going to your house 
many a day with a little basket of comforts tucked 
under her wing. But she ’s too good to be praised 
in such a place as this,” added Stevens. After a 
pause he inquired, “ What makes you down on 
Shackford ? He has always been a friend to you.” 

One of those friends who walk over your head,” 
replied Durgin. “ I was in the yard two years 
before him, and see where he is.” 

Lord love you,” said Stevens, leaning back in 
his chair and contemplating Durgin thoughtfullv. 

there is marble and marble ; some is Carrara mar- 
ble, and some is n’t. The fine grain takes a polish 
you can’t get on to the other.” 

Of course, he is statuary marble, and I’m full 
of seams and feldspar.” 

‘‘ You are like the most of us, — not the kind 
that can be worked up into anything very orna- 
mental.” 

‘‘ Thank you for nothing,” said Durgin, turning 
away. “ I came from as good a quarry as ever 
Dick Shackford. Where ’s Torrini to-night ? ” 

“ Nobody has seen him since the difficulty,” said 
Dexter, “ except Peters. Torrini sent for him aftei 
Rupper.” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


163 


As Dexter spoke, the door opened and Peters 
entered. He went directly to the group composed 
chiefly of Slocum’s men, and without making any 
remark began to distribute among them certain 
Email blue tickets, which they pocketed in silence. 
Glancing carelessly at his piece of card-board, Dur 
gin said to Peters, — 

“ Then it ’s decided ? ” 

Peters nodded. 

How ’s Torrini ? ” 

“ He ’s all right.” 

What does he say ? ” 

Nothing in perticular,” responded Peters, “ and 
nothing at all about his little skylark with Shack- 
ford.” 

He ’s a cool one ! ” exclaimed Durgin. 

Though the slips of blue pasteboard had been 
delivered and accepted without comment, it was 
known in a second through the bar-room that a 
special meeting had been convened for the next 
night by the oflBcers of the Marble Workers’ Asso- 
ciation, 


XIV. 


On the third morning after Torrini’s expulsion 
from the yard, Mr. Slocum walked into the studio 
with a printed slip in his hand. A similar slip lay 
crumpled under a work-bench, where Richard had 
tossed it. Mr. Slocum’s kindly visage was full of 
trouble and perplexity as he raised his eyes from 
the paper, which he had been re-reading on the 
way up-stairs. 

“ Look at that ! ” 

“ Yes,” remarked Richard, “ I have been honored 
with one of those documents.” 

What does it mean ? ” 

“ It means business.” 

The paper in question contained a series of re* 
Bolutions unanimously adopted at a meeting of the 
Marble Workers’ Association of Stillwater, held 
in Grimsey’s Hall the previous night. Dropping 
the preamble, these resolutions, which were neatly 
printed with a type-writing machine on a half let- 
ter sheet, ran as follows : — 

Resolved, That on and after the First of June proxima 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 165 

the pay of carvers in Slocum’s Marble Yard shall be 
$2.75 per day, instead of $2.50 as heretofore. 

Resolved^ That on and after the same date, the rubbers 
and polishers shall have $2.00 per day, instead of $1.75 
as heretofore. 

Resolved, That on and after the same date the millinen 
are to have $2.00 per day, instead of $1.75 as hereto- 
fore. 

Resolved, That during the months of June, July, and 
August the shops shall knock off work on Saturdays at 
five p. M., instead of at six p. m. 

Resolved, That a printed copy of these Resolutions be 
laid before the Proprietor of Slocum’s Marble Yard, and 
that his immediate attention to them be respectfully re- 
quested. Per order of Committee M, JF. A. 

tc Torrini is at the bottom of that,” said Mr. Slo- 
cum. 

I hardly think so. This arrangement, as I told 
you the other day before I had the trouble with 
him, has been in contemplation several weeks. Un- 
doubtedly Torrini used his influence to hasten the 
movement already planned. The Association has 
coo much shrewdness to espouse the quarrel of an 
individual.” 

What are we to do 7 

“ If you are in the same mind you were when we 
talked over the possibility of an unreasonable de- 
mand like this, there is only one thing to do.” 


166 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ Fight it?” 

“ Fight it.” 

“ I have been resolute, and all that sort of thing*, 
in times past,” observed Mr. Slocum, glancing out 
of the tail of his eye at Richard, ‘‘and have alwayi^ 
come off second best. The Association has drawn 
up most of my rules for me, and had its own way 
generally.” 

“ Since my time you have never been in so strong 
a position to make a stand. We have got all the 
larger contracts out of the way. Foreseeing what 
was likely to come, I have lately fought shy of tak- 
ing new ones. Here are heavy orders from Rafter 
& Son, the Builders’ Company, and others. We 
must decline them by to-night’s mail.” 

“ Is it really necessary ? ” asked Mr. Slocum, 
knitting his forehead into what would have been 
a scowl if his mild pinkish eyebrows had permit- 
ted it. 

“ I think so.” 

“ I hate to do that.” 

“ Then w^e are at the mercy of the Association.” 

“ If we do not come to their terms, you seriously 
believe they will strike ? ” 

“ I do,” replied Richard, “ and we should be in 
a pretty fix.” 

“ But these demands are ridiculous.” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


167 


The men are not aware of our situation ; they 
imagine we have a lot of important jobs on hand, 
as usual at this season. Formerly the foreman of a 
shop had access to the order-book, but for the last 
year or two I have kept it in the safe here. The 
other day Dexter came to me and wanted to see 
what work was set down ahead in the blotter ; but 
I had an inspiration and did n’t let him post him- 
self.” 

“Is not some kind of compromise possible?” sug- 
gested Mr. Slocum, looking over the slip again. 
“Now this fourth clause, about closing the yard an 
hour early on Saturdays, I don’t strongly object to 
that, though with eighty hands it means, every 
week, eighty hours’ work which the yard pays for 
and does n’t get.” 

“ I should advise granting that request. Such 
concessions are never wasted. But, Mr. Slocum, 
this is not going to satisfy them. They have 
thrown in one reasonable demand merely to flavor 
the rest. I happen to know that they are deter- 
mined to stand by their programme to the last let- 
ter.” 

“ You know that ? ” 

“ I have a friend at court. Of coarse this is not 
to bo breathed, but Denyven, without being at all 
(:ilse to his comrades, talks freely with me. He 
lays they are resolved not to give in an inch.” 


168 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ Then we will close the works.” 

“ That is what I wanted you to say, sir I ” cried 
Richard. 

With this new scale of prices and plenty of 
work, we might probably come out a little ahead 
the next six months ; but it would n’t pay for the 
trouble and the capital invested. Then when trade 
slackened, we should be running at a loss, and 
there ’d be another wrangle over a reduction. We 
had better lie idle.” 

“ Stick to that, sir, and may be it will not be 
necessary.” 

“ But if they strike” — 

“ They won’t all strike. At least,” added Rich- 
ard, “ I hope not. I have indirectly sounded sev- 
eral of the older hands, and they have half prom- 
ised to hold on ; only half promised, for every man 
of them at heart fears the trades-union more than 
No-bread — until No-bread comes.” 

“ Whom have you spoken with ? ” 

Lumley, Giles, Peterson, and some others, — 
your pensioners, I call them.” 

“Yes, they were in the yard in my father’s time 
they have not been worth their salt these ten years , 
When the business was turned over to me I did n’t 
jlischarge any old hand who had given his best days 
to the yard. Somehow I could n’t throw away the 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 169 

iqueezecl lemons. An employer owes a good work- 
man something beyond the wages paid.” 

‘‘ And a workman owes a good employer some- 
thing beyond the work done. You stood by these 
men after they outlived their usefulness, and if they 
do not stand by you now, they ’re a shabby set.” 

‘‘ I fancy they will, Richard.” 

‘‘I think they had better, and I wish they would. 
We have enough odds and ends to keep them busy 
awhile, and I should n’t like to have the clinking 
of chisels die out altogether under the old sheds.” 

‘‘ Nor I,” returned Mr. Slocum, with a touch of 
sadness in his intonation. It has grown to be a 
kind of music to me,” and he paused to listen to 
the sounds of ringing steel that floated up from the 
workshops. 

Whatever happens, that music shall not cease 
in the yard except on Sundays, if I have to take 
mallet and chisel and go at a slab all alone.” 

“ Slocum’s Yard with a single workman in it 
would be a pleasing spectacle,” said Mr. Slocum, 
smiling ruefully. 

“ It would n’t be a bad time for that workman to 
Btrike,” returned Richard with a laugh. 

He could dictate his own terms,” returned Mr. 
Slocum, soberly. “ Well, I suppose you cannot 
help thinking about Margaret but don’t think of 


170 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


her now. Tell me what answer you propose to 
give the Association, — how you mean to put it ; 
for I leave the matter wholly to you. I shall hav« 
no hand in it, further than to indorse your action.” 

To-morrow, then,” said Richard, “ for it is no 
use to hurry up a crisis, I shall go to the workshops 
and inform them that their request for short hours 
on Saturdays is granted, but that the other changes 
they suggest are not to be considered. There will 
never be a better opportunity, Mr. Slocum, to settle 
another question which has been allowed to run too 
long.” 

“What ’s that?” 

“ The apprentice question.” 

“ Would it be wise to touch on that at present? ” 

“ While we are straightening out matters and 
putting things on a solid basis, it seems to me es- 
sential to settle that. There was never a greater 
imposition, or one more short-sighted, than this rule 
which prevents the training of sufficient workmen. 
The trades-union will discover their error some day 
when they have succeeded in forcing manufacturers 
to import skilled labor by the wholesale. I would 
like to tell the Marble Workers’ Association that 
Slocum’s Yard has resolved to employ as man\ ap 
prentices each year as there is room for.” 

“ I would n’t dare risk it I ” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


171 


“ It will have to be done, sooner or later. It 
would be a capital flank movement now. They 
have laid themselves open to an attack on that 
quarter.” 

‘‘ I might as well close the gates for good and 
all.” 

‘‘ So you will, if it comes to that. You can af- 
ford to close the gates, and they can’t afford to have 
you. In a week they ’d be back, asking you to 
open them. Then you could have your pick of the 
live hands, and drop the dead wood. If Giles ov 
Peterson or Lumley or any of those desert us, they 
are not to be let on again. I hope you will prom- 
ise me that, sir.” 

‘‘ If the occasion offers, you shall reorganize the 
shops in your own way. I have n’t the nerve for 
this kind of business, though I have seen a great 
deal of it in the village, first and last. Strikes are 
terrible mistakes. Even when they succeed, what 
pays for the lost time and the money squandered 
. ver the tavern-bar ? What makes up for the days 
CT weeks wdien the fire was out on the hearth and 
the children had no bread ? That is what hap- 
pens, you know.” 

“There is no remedy for such calamities,” Rich- 
ard answered. “ Yet I can imagine occasions when 
it uould be better to let the fire go out and the 
thildren want for bread.” 


172 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ You are not advocating strikes ! ” exclaimed 
Mr. Slocum. 

Why not ? ” 

“ I thought you were for fighting them.” 

‘‘ So I am, in this instance ; but the question has 
two sides. Every man has the riglit to set a price 
on his ov n labor, and to refuse to work for less ; 
the wisdom of it is another matter. He puts him- 
self in the wrong only when he menaces the per- 
son or the property of the man who has an equal 
right not to employ him. That is the blunder 
strikers usually make in the end, and one by which 
they lose public sympathy even when they are 
fighting an injustice. Now, sometimes it is an in- 
justice that is being fought, and then it is right to 
fight it with the only weapon a poor man has to 
wield against a power which possesses a hundred 
weapons, — and that ’s a strike. For example, the 
smelters and casters in the Miantowona Iron Works 
are meanly underpaid.” 

“ What, have they struck ? ” 

‘‘ There '’s a general strike threatened in the vil- 
lage ; foundry-men, spinners, and all.” 

“ So much the worse for everybody ! I did not 
suppose it was as bad as that. What has become 
of Torrini ? ” 

“The day after he left us he was taken on ai 
forgeman at Dana’s.” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


173 


‘‘ I am glad Dana has got him I ” 

‘‘ At the meeting, last night, Torrini gave in his 
resignation as secretary of the Association ; being 
no longer a marble worker, he was not qualified to 
serve.” 

We unhorsed him, then ? ” 

Rather. I am half sorry, too.” 

‘‘Richard,” said Mr. Slocum, halting in one ol 
his nervous walks up and down the room, “ you are 
the oddest composition of hardness and softness I 
ever saw.” 

“Ami?” 

“ One moment you stand braced like a lion to , 
fight the whole yard, and the next moment you are 
pitying a miscreant who would have laid your head 
open without the slightest compunction.” 

“ Oh, I forgive him,” said Richard. “ I was a 
trifle hasty myself. Margaret thinks so too.” 

“ Much Margaret knows about it ! ” 

“ I was inconsiderate, to say the least. When a 
man picks up a tool by the wrong end he must ex- 
pect to get cut.” 

“ You did n’t have a choice.” 

“I should n’t have touched Torrini. After dis- 
ehai’ging him and finding him disposed to resist my 
ovdev to leave the yard, I ought to have called in 
% constable. Usually it is very hard to anger me 


174 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


but three or four times in my life I have been car. 
ried away by a devil of a temper which I could n’t 
control, it seized me so unawares. That was one 
of the times.” 

The mallets and chisels were executing a blithe 
staccato movement in the yard below, and making 
the sparks dance. No one walking among the dil- 
igent gangs, and observing the placid faces of the 
men as they bent over their tasks, would have sus- 
pected that they were awaiting the word that 
meant bread and meat and home to them. 

As Richard passed through the shops, dropping 
a word to a workman here and there, the man 
addressed looked up cheerfully and made a fur- 
tive dab at the brown paper cap, and Richard re- 
turned the salute smilingly ; but he was sad within. 
^‘The foolish fellows,” he said to himself, “they 
are throwing away a full loaf and are likely to 
get none at all.” Giles and two or three of the 
ancients were squaring a block of marble under a 
shelter by themselves. Richard made it a point 
to cross over and speak to them. In past days 
he had not been exacting with these old boys, and 
they always had a welcome for him. 

Slocum’s Yard seldom presented a serener air of 
i-ontented industry than it wore that morning ; but 
n spite of all this smooth outside it was a foregone 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


175 


conclusion witli most of the men that Slocum, with 
Shacikford behind him, would never submit to the 
new scale of wages. There were a few who had 
protested against those resolutions and still disap> 
proved of them, but were forced to go with the As- 
sociation, which had really been dragged into the 
current by the other trades. 

The Dana Mills and the IMiantowona Iron Works 
were paying lighter wages than similar establish- 
ments nearer the great city. The managers con- 
tended that they were paying as high if not higher 
rates, taking into consideration the cheaper cost 
of living in Stillwater. ‘‘ But you get city prices 
for your wares,’^ retorted the union ; you don’t 
pay city rents, and you shall pay city wages.” 
Meetings were held at Grimsey’s Hall and the sub- 
ject was canvassed, at first calmly and then storm- 
ily. Among the molders, and possibly the sheet- 
iron workers, there was cause for dissatisfaction; 
but the dissatisfaction spread to where no grievance 
existed ; it seized upon the spinners, and finally 
ipon the marble workers. Torrini fanned the 
flame there. Taking for his text the rentage ques- 
tion, he argued that Slocum was well able to give 
a trifle more for labor tlian his city competitors. 
“ The annual rent of a yard like Slocum’s would be 
'our thousand or five thousand dollars in the city. 


176 THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 

It does n t cost Slocum two hundred dollars. It ia 
AO more than just that the laborer should have a 
share — he only asks a beggarly share — of the 
prosperity which he has helped to build up.” This 
was specious and taking. Then there came down 
from the great city a glib person disguised as The 
Workingman’s Friend, — no workingman himself, 
mind you, but a ghoul that lives upon subscriptions 
and sucks the senses out of innocent human beings, 
— who managed to set the place by the ears. The 
result of all which was that one May morning every 
shop, mill, and factory in Stillwater was served 
with a notice from the trades-union, and a general 
strike threatened. 

But our business at present is exclusively with 
Slocum’s Yard. 


I 


XV. 


‘‘ Since we are in for it,” said Mr. Slocum the 
next morning, “ put the case to them squarely.” 

Mr. Slocum’s vertebrae had stiffened over night. 

Leave that to me, sir,” Richard replied. ‘‘ I 
have been shaping out in my mind a little speech 
which I flatter myself will cover the points. They 
have brought this thing upon themselves, and we 
are about to have the clearest of understandings. I 
never saw the men quieter.” 

I don’t altogether admire that. It looks as if 
they had n’t any doubt as to the issue.” 

The clearest-headed have no doubt ; they know 
as well as you and I do the flimsiness of those reso- 
lutions. But the thick heads are in a fog. Every 
man naturally likes his pay increased ; if a simple 
fellow is told five or six hundred times that his 
wages ought to be raised, the idea is so agreeable 
and insidious that by and by he begins to believe 
himself grossly underpaid, though he may be get- 
ting twice what he is worth. He doesn’t reason 
about it; that ’s the last thing he ’ll do for you. In 
his mood he lets himself be blown away by the 
12 


178 


'IHE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


breath of some loud-mouthed demagogue, who has 
no interest in the matter beyond hearing his own 
talk and passing round the hat after the meeting 
is over. That is what has happened to our folks 
below. But they are behaving handsomely.” 

“ Yes, and I don’t like it.” 

Since seven o’clock the most unimpeachable de- 
orum had reigned in the workshops. It was now 
line, and this brief dialogue had occurred between 
Mr. Slocum and Richard on the veranda, just as 
the latter was on the point of descending into the 
yard to have his talk with the men. 

The workshops — or rather the shed in which 
the workshops were, for it was one low structure 
eighteen or twenty feet wide and open on the west 
side — ran the length of the yard, and with the 
^hort extension at the southerly end formed the 
letter L. There were no partitions, an imaginary 
ine separating the different gangs of workers. A 
person standing at the head of the building could 
make himself heard more or less distinctly in the 
remotest part. 

The grating lisp of the wet saws eating their way 
tnto the marble bowlder, and the irregular quick 
taps of the seventy or eighty mallets were not sus* 
pended as Richard took his stand beside a tall fu- 
nereal urn at the head of the principal workshop 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 179 

After a second’s faltering lie rapped smartly on the 
lip of the nrn with the key of his studio-door. 

Instantly every arm appeared paralyzed, and the 
men stood motionless, with the tools in their hands. 

Richard began in a clear but not loud voice, 
though it seemed to ring on the sudden silence : — 

‘‘ Mr. Slocum has asked me to say a few words to 
you, this morning, about those resolutions, and one 
or two other matters that have occurred to him in 
this connection. I am no speech-maker ; I never 
learned that trade ” — 

‘‘ Never learned any trade,” muttered Durgin, in- 
audibly. 

— but I think I can manage some plain, honest 
talk, for straight-forward men.” 

Richard’s exordium was listened to with painful 
attention. 

“ In the first place,” he continued, ‘‘ I want to 
remind you, especially the newer men, that Slo- 
cum’s Yard has always given steady work and 
prompt pay to Stillwater hands. No hand has ever 
been turned off without suflBcient cause, or kept on 
through mere favoritism. Favors have been shown, 
but they have been shown to all alike. If anything 
has gone crooked, it has been straightened out as 
loon as Mr. Slocum knew of it. That has been the 
course of the yard in the past, and the Proprietoi 


180 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


floes n’t want you to run away witli the idea that 
that course is going to be changed. One changCt 
for the time being, is going to be made at your own 
suggestion. From now, until the 1st of September 
this yard will close gates on Saturdays at five P. M. 
instead of at six P. M.” 

Several voices cried, “ Good for Slocum 1 ” 
“ Where ’s Slocum ? ” “ Why don’t Slocum speak 

for himself ? ” cried one voice. 

“ It is Mr. Slocum’s habit,” answered Richard, 
‘‘ to give his directions to me, I give them to the 
foremen, and the foremen to the shops. Mr. Slo- 
cum follows that custom on this occasion. With 
regard to the new scale of wages which the Associ- 
ation has submitted to him, the Proprietor refuses 
to accept it, or any modification of it.” 

A low murmur ran through the workshops. 

“ What ’s a modificashun, sir ? ” asked Jemmy 
Willson, stepping forward, and scratching his left 
ear diffidently. 

“ A modification,” replied Richard, considerably 
embarrassed to give an instant definition, “ is a — 

a”- 

“ A splitting of the difference, by ! ” shouted 

somebody in the third shop. 

“ Thank you,” said Richard, glancing in the di 
tection of his impromptu Webster Unabridged 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


181 


‘ Mr. Slocum does not propose to split the differ- 
ence. The wages in every department are to be 
just what they are, — neither more nor less. If 
anybody wishes to make a remark,” he added, ob 
serving a restlessness in several of the men, I 
beg he will hold on until I get through. I shall 
not detain you much longer, as the parson says 
before he has reached the middle of his sermon. 

What I say now, I was charged to make par* 
ticularly clear to you. It is this : In future Mr. 
Slocum intends to run Slocum’s Yard himself. 
Neither you, nor I, nor the Association will be al- 
lowed to run it for him. [Sensation.] Until now 
the Association has tied him dowm to two ap- 
prentices a year. From this hour, out, Mr. Slocum 
will take on, not two, or twenty, but two hundred 
apprentices if the business warrants it.” 

The words were not clearly off Richard’s lips 
when the foreman of the shop in which he was 
speaking picked up a couple of small drills, and 
knocked them together with a sharp click. In an 
instant the men laid aside their aprons, bundled 
up their tools, and marched out of the shed two 
by two, in dead silence. That same click was re- 
peated almost simultaneously in the second shop, 
and the same evolution took place. Then click, 
click, click went the drills, sounding fainter and 


182 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


fainter in the more distant departments ; and in 
less than three minutes there was not a soul left in 
Slocum’s Yard except the Orator of the Day. 

Richard had anticipated some demonstration, 
either noisy or violent, perhaps both ; but this sol- 
emn, orderly desertion dashed him. 

He stepped into the middle of the yard, and 
glancing up beheld Margaret and Mr. Slocum 
standing on the veranda. Even at that distance 
he could perceive the pallor on one face, and the 
consternation written all over the other. 

Hanging his head with sadness, Richard crossed 
the yard, which gave out mournful echoes to his 
footfalls, and swung to the large gate, nearly catch- 
ing old Giles by the heel as he did so. Looking 
through the slats, he saw Lumley and Peterson 
hobbling arm in arm down the street, — after more 
than twenty-five years of kindly treatment. 

‘‘ Move number one,” said Richard, lifting the 
heayy cross-piece into its place and fastening it 
with a wooden pin. ‘‘ Now I must go and prop up 
Ml Slocum.” 


XVI. 


TnERB is no solitude or silence whicli comes so 
near being tangible as that of a vast empty work 
shop, crowded a moment since. The busy, intense 
life that has gone from it mysteriously leaves be- 
hind enough of itself to make the stillness poignant. 
One might imagine the invisible ghost of doomed 
Toil wandering from bench to bench, and noise- 
lessly fingering the dropped tools, still warm from 
the workman’s palm. Perhaps this impalpable 
presence is the artisan’s anxious thought, stolen 
back to brood over the uncompleted task. 

Though Mr. Slocum had spoken lightly of Slo- 
cum’s Yard with only one workman in it, when he 
came to contemplate the actual fact he was struck 
by the pathos of it, and the resolution with which 
be awoke that morning began to desert him. 

The worst is over,” exclaimed Richard, join- 
ing his two friends on the veranda, and every- 
thing went smoother than I expected.” 

“ Everything went, sure enough,” said Mr. Slo- 
cum, gloomily ; they all went, — old Giles, and 
Lumley and everybody.” 


184 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


‘‘ We somewhat expected that, you know.” 

“Yes, I expected it, and wasn’t prepared for it.’ 

“ It was very bad,” said Richard, shaking his 
head. 

The desertion of Giles and his superannuated 
mates especially touched Mr. Slocum. 

“ Bad is no word ; it was damnable.” 

“ Oh, papa ! ” 

“ Pardon me, dear ; I could n’t help it. When 
a man’s pensioners throw him over, he must be 
pretty far gone ! ” 

“ The undertow was too strong for them, sir, and 
they were swept away with the rest. And they 
all but pi'omised to stay. They will be the very 
first to come back.” 

“ Of course we shall have to take the old fel- 
lows on again,” said Mr. Slocum, relenting charac- 
teristically. 

“ Never I ” cried Richard. 

“ I wish I had some of your grit.” 

“ I have none to spare. To tell the truth, when 
I stood up there to speak, with every eye working 
on me, like a half-inch drill, I would have sold 
myself at a low figure.” 

“ But you were a perfect what ’s-his-name, — « 
Demosthenes,” said Mr. Slocum, with a faint smil^ 
'‘We could hear you.” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDYa 185 

‘‘ I don’t believe Demostbenes ever moved an 
audience as I did mine ! ” cried Richard gayly, If 
his orations produced a like effect, I am certain 
that the Grecian lecture-bureau never sent him 
twice to the same place.” 

“ I don’t think, Richard, I will engage you over 
again.” 

“I am sure Richard spoke very well,” inter- 
rupted Margaret. His speech was short ” — 

“ Say shortened, Margaret, for I had n’t got 
through when they left.” 

‘‘No, I will not jest about it. It is too serious 
for jesting. What is to become of the families 
of all these men suddenly thrown out of employ- 
ment ? ” 

“They threw themselves out, Mag,” said her 
father. 

“ That does not mend the matter, papa. There 
will be great destitution and suffering in the vil- 
lage with every mill closed ; and they are all going 
to close, Bridget says. Thank Heaven that this 
did not happen in the winter ! ” 

“ They always pick their weather,” observed Mr, 
Slocum. 

“ It will not be for long,” said Richard encour- 
agingly. “Our own hands and the spinners, who 
had no ground for complaint, will return to work 


186 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


shortly, and the managers of the iron mills will 
have to yield a point or two. In a week at the 
outside everything will be running smoothly, and 
on a sounder foundation than before. I believe 
the strike will be an actual benefit to everybody in 
the end.’” 

By dint of such arguments and his own sanguine 
temperament, Richard succeeded in reassuring Mr. 
Slocum for the time being, though Richard did 
not hide from himself the gravity of the situation. 
There was a general strike in the village. Eight 
hundred men were without work. That meant, or 
would mean in a few days, two or three thousand 
women and children without bread. It does not 
take the wolf long to reach a poor man’s door when 
it is left ajar. 

The trades-union had a fund for emergencies of 
this sort, and some outside aid might be looked for ; 
but such sujDplies are in their nature precarious and 
BOOH exhausted. It is a noticeable feature of strikes 
that the moment the workman’s pay stops his liv- 
ing expenses increase. Even the more economical 
becomes improvident. If he has money, the to- 
bacco shop and the tavern are likely to get more of 
it than the butcher’s cart. The prolonged straiii 
is too great to be endured without stimulant. 


XVII. 


During tlie first and second days of the strike, 
Stillwater presented an animated and even a festive 
appearance. Throngs of operatives in their Sunday 
clothes strolled through the streets, or lounged at 
the corners chatting with other groups ; some wan- 
dered into the suburbs, and lay in the long grass 
under the elms. Others again, though these were 
tew, took to the turnpike or the railroad track, and 
tramped across country. 

It is needless to say that the bar-room of the tav- 
ern was crowded from early morning down to the 
hour when the law compelled Mr. Snelling to shut 
off his gas. After which, John Brown’s ‘‘soul” 
could be heard “ marching on ” in the darkness, 
through various crooked lanes and alleys, until 
nearly daybreak. 

Among the earliest to scent trouble in the ai^ 
was Han-Lin, the Chinaman before mentioned. Ho 
kept a small laundry in Mud Lane, where his name 
Was painted perpendicularly on a light of glass in the 
basement window of a tenement house. Han-Lin 
intended to be buried some day in a sky-blue coffin 


188 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


in his own land, and have a dozen packs of fire- 
crackers decorously exploded over his remains. In 
order to reserve himself for this and other ceremo- 
nies involving the burning of a great quantity of 
gilt paper, he quietly departed for Boston at the 
first sign of popular discontent. As Dexter de 
scribed it, ‘^Han-Lin coiled up his pig-tail, put 
forty grains of rice in a yallar bag, — enough to 
last him a month ! — and toddled off in his two- 
story wooden shoes.” He could scarcely have done 
a wiser thing, for poor Han-Lin’s laundry was 
turned wrong side out within thirty-six hours aft- 
erwards. 

The strike was popular. The spirit of it spread, 
as fire and fever and all elemental forces spread. 
The two apprentices in Brackett’s bakery had a 
dozen minds about striking that first morning. 
The younger lad, Joe Wiggin, plucked up courage 
to ask Brackett for a day off, and was lucky enough 
to dodge a piece of dough weighing nearly four 
pounds. 

Brackett "was making bread while the sun shone. 
He knew that before the week was over there 
would be no cash customers, and he purposed then 
to shut up shop. 

On the third and fourth days there was no per 
ceptible fall in the barometer. Trade was brisk 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


189 


with Snelling, and a brass band was playing na^ 
tional airs on a staging erected on the green in 
front of the post-ofBce. Nightly meetings took 
place at Grimsey’s Hall, and the audiences were 
good-humored and orderly. Torrini advanced some 
Utopian theories touching a universal distribution 
of wealth, which were listened to attentively, but 
failed to produce deep impression. 

That ’s a healthy idea of Torrini’s about der- 
vidin’ up property,” said Jemmy Willson. ‘‘I Ve 
heerd it afore ; but it ’s sing’ler I never knowd a 
feller with any property to have that idea.” 

Ther’ ’s a great dale in it, I can tell ye,” re- 
plied Michael Hennessey, with a well-blackened 
Woodstock pipe between his teeth and his hands 
tucked under his coat-tails. ‘‘ Is n’t ther’, Misthei 
Stavens ? ” 

When Michael had on his bottle-green swallow 
tailed coat with the brass buttons, he invariably as 
Burned a certain lofty air of ceremony in addressing 
bis companions. ^ 

‘‘ It is sorter pleasant to look at,” returned Ste- 
vens, but it don’t seem to me an idea that would 
work. Suppose that, after all the property was 
divided, a fresh ship-load of ycur friends was to 
land at New York or Boston would there be a 
Hew deal ? ” 


190 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


‘‘ No, sur I by no manes ! ” exclaimed Michael 
excitedly. The furreners is counted out ! ” 

But you ’re a foreigner yourself, Mike.” 

“ Am I, then ? Bedad, I ’m not ! I ’m a rale 
American Know Nothing.” 

“ Well, Mike,” said Stevens maliciously, ‘‘ when 
it comes to a reg’lar division of lands and green- 
backs in the United States, I go in for the Chinese 
having their share.” 

“The Chinase!” shouted Michael. “ Oh, niur- 
ther, Misther Stavens ! Ye wouldn’t be fur divid- 
in’ with thim blatherskites ! ” 

“Yes, with them, — as well as the rest,” re- 
turned Stevens dryly. 

■ Meanwhile the directors and stockholders of the 
various mills took coijnsel in a room at the rear of 
the National Bank. Mr. Slocum, following Rich- 
ard’s advice, declined to attend the meeting in per- 
son, or to allow his name to figure on the list of 
vice-presidents. 

“ Why should we hitch our good cause to their 
doubtful one?” reflected Richard. “ We have no 
concessions or proposals to make. When our men 
are ready to come back to us, they will receive just 
wages and fair treatment. They know that. We 
do not want to fight the molders. Let the iron 
mills do their own fighting ; ” and Richard stolidly 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


191 


employed liimself in taking an account of stock, 
and forwarding by express to their destination the 
ten or twelve carved mantel-pieces that happily 
completed the last contract. 

Then his responsibilities shrunk to winding up 
the ofl&ce clock and keeping Mr. Slocum firmly on 
his legs. The latter was by far the more onerous 
duty, for Mr. Slocum ran down two or three times 
in the course of every twenty-four hours, while the 
clock once wound was fixed for the day. 

“If I could only have a good set of Waltham 
works put into your father,” said Richard to Mar- 
garet, after one of Mr. Slocum’s relapses, “ he 
would go better.” 

“ Poor papa ! he is not a fighter, like you.” 

“Your father is what I |all a belligerent non- 
combatant.” 

Richard was seeing a great deal of Margaret 
these days. Mr. Slocum had invited him to sleep 
in the studio until the excitement was past. Mar- 
garet was afraid to have him take that long walk 
between the yard and his lodgings in Lime Street, 
and then her father was an old man to be with- 
out any protection in the house in such untoward 
times. 

So Richard slept in the studio, and had his plate 
%i table, like one of the family. This arrangement 


192 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Was favorable to many a stolen five minutes with 
Margaret, in the hall or on the staircase. In these 
fortuitous moments he breathed an atmosphere that 
sustained him in his task of dispelling Mr. Slocum’s 
recurrent fits of despondency. Margaret had her 
duties, too, at this period, and the forenoons were 
sacred to them. 

One morning as she passed down the street with 
a small wicker basket on her arm, Richard said to 
Mr. Slocum, — 

“ Margaret has joined the strikers.” 

The time had already come to Stillwater when 
many a sharp-faced little urchin — as dear to the 
warm, deep bosom that had nursed it as though it 
were a crown prince — would not have had a crust 
to gnaw if Margaret Slocum had not joined the 
strikers. Sometimes her heart drooped on the way 
home from these errands, upon seeing how little of 
the misery she could ward off. On her rounds there 
was one cottage in a squalid lane where the chil- 
dren asked for bread in Italian. She never omit- 
ted to halt at that door. 

“Is it quite prudent for Margaret to be going 
jibout so ? ” queried Mr. Slocum. 

She is perfectly safe,” said Richard, — “ as safe 
ns a Sister of Charity, which she is.” 

Indeed, Margaret might then have gone loaded 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


193 


with diamonds through the streets at midnight. 
There was not a rough man in Stillwater who would 
not have reached forth an arm to shield her. 

“ It is costing me nearly as much as it would to 
carry on the yard,” said Mr. Slocum, ‘‘ but I never 
put out any stamps more willingly.” 

‘‘You never took a better contract, sir, than when 
you agreed to keep Margaret’s basket filled. It is 
an investment in real estate — hereafter.” 

“I hope so,” answered Mr. Slocum, “and I know 
it ’s a good thing now.” 

Of the morals of Stillwater at this time, or at 
any time, the less said the better. But out of the 
slime and ooze below sprang the white flower of 
charity. 

The fifth day fell on a Sabbath, and the churches 
were crowded. The Rev. Arthur Langly selected 
his text from S. Matthew, chap. xxh. v. 21 : “ Ren- 
der therefore unto Caesar the things which are 
Caesar’s.” But as he did not make it quite plain 
which was Caesar, — the trades-union or the Mian- 
towona Ironworks, — the sermon went for noth- 
ing, unless it could be regarded as a hint to those 
persons who had stolen a large piece of belting 
from the Dana Mills. On the other hand. Father 
O’Meara that morning bravely told his children to 
conduct themselves in an orderly manner while they 
13 


194 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


were out of work, or they would catch it in this 
world and in the next. 

On the sixth day a keen observer might have de- 
tected a change in the atmosphere. The streets 
were thronged as usual, and the idlers still wore 
their Sunday clothes, but the holiday buoyancy oi 
the earlier part of the week had evaporated. A 
turn-out on the part of one of the trades, though 
it was accompanied by music and a banner with a 
lively inscription, failed to arouse general enthusi- 
asm. A serious and even a sullen face was not rare 
among the crowds that wandered aimlessly up and 
down the village. 

On the seventh day it required no penetration to 
see the change. There was decidedly less good- 
natured chaffing and more drunkenness, though 
Snelling had invoked popular contumely and deci- 
mated his bar-room by refusing to trust for drinks. 
Brackett had let his ovens cool, and his shutters 
were up. The treasury of the trades-union was 
nearly drained, and there were growlings that too 
much had been fooled away on banners and a brass 
band for the iron men’s parade the previous fore- 
noon. It was when Brackett’s eye sighted the 
^>Anner with “Bread or Blood” on it, that he had 
put up his shutters. 

Torrini was now making violent harangues a 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


195 


Grimsey’s Hall to largely augmented listeners, 
whom his words irritated without convincing. Shut 
off from the tavern, the men flocked to hear him 
and the other speakers, for born orators were just 
then as thick as unripe whortleberries. There was 
nowhere else to go. At home were reproaches that 
maddened, and darkness, for the kerosene had given 
out. 

Though all the trades had been swept into the 
movement, it is not to be understood that every 
workman was losing his head. There were men 
who owned their cottages and had small sums laid 
by in the savings-bank ; who had always sent their 
children to the district school, and listened them- 
selves to at least one of Mr. Langly’s sermons or 
one of Father O’Meara’s discourses every Sunday. 
These were anchored to good order ; they neither 
ilrequented the bar-room nor attended the conclaves 
ivt Grimsey’s Hall, but deplored as deeply as any 
ore the spirit that was manifesting itself. They 
would have returned to work now — if they had 
iared. To this class belonged Stevens. 

Why don’t you come up to the hall, nights ? ” 
asked Durgin, accosting him on the street, one aft- 
ernoon. You ’d run a chance of hearing me hold 
forth some of these evenings.” 

‘‘ You ’ve answered your own question, William 


196 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


I shouldn’t like to see you making an idiot ol 
yourself.” 

This is a square fight between labor and capi- 
tal,” returned Durgin with dignity, “and everj' 
man ought to take a hand in it.” 

“William,” said Stevens meditatively, “do you 
know about the Siamese twins ? ” 

“ What about ’em, — they ’re dead, ain’t they ? ” 
replied Durgin, with surprise. 

“ I believe so ; but when they was alive, if you 
was to pinch one of those fellows, the other fellow 
would sing out. If you was to black the eye of 
the left-hand chap, the right-hand chap would n’t 
have been able to see for a week. When either of 
’em fetched the other a clip, he knocked himself 
down. Labor and capital is jined just as those 
two was. When you ’ve got this fact well into 
your skull, William, I shall be pleased to listen to 
your ideas at Grimsey’s Hall or anywhere else.” 

Such conservatism as Stevens’s, however, was 
.necessarily swept out of sight for the moment. The 
wealthier citizens were in a state bordering on 
panic, — all but Mr. Lemuel Shackford. In bis 
flapping linen duster, for the weather was very sul- 
try now, Mr. Shackford was seen darting excitedly 
from street to street and hovering about the fever- 
ish crowds, like the stormy petrel wheeling on th« 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


197 


edges of a gale. Usually as chary of his sym- 
pathies as of his gold, he astonished every one by 
evincing an abnormal interest in the strikers. The 
old man declined to put down anything on the sub- 
scription paper then circulating; but he put down 
his sympathies to any amount. He held no stock 
in the concerns involved ; he hated Slocum, and he 
hated the directors of the Miantowona Iron Works. 
The least he hoped was that Rowland Slocum would 
be laid out. 

So far the strikers had committed no overt act 
of note, unless it was the demolition of Han-Lin’s 
laundry. Stubbs, the provision dealer, had been 
taught the rashness of exposing samples of pota- 
toes in his door-way, and the ‘‘ Tonsorial Empo- 
rium ” of Professor Brown, a colored citizen, had 
been invaded by two humorists, who, after having 
their hair curled, refused to pay for it, and the pro- 
fessor had been too agitated to insist. The story 
transpiring, ten or twelve of the boys had dropped 
in during the morning, and got shaved on the same 
terms. By golly, gen’l’men ! ” expostulated the 
professor, “ ef dis yah thing goes on, dis darkey 
will be cleaned cl’ar out fo de week ’s done.” No 
act of real violence had been perpetrated as yet ; 
but with bands of lawless men roaming over the 
village at all hours of the day and night, the situa- 
tion was critical. 


198 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


The wheel of what small social life there was in 
Stillwater had ceased to revolve. With the single 
exception of Lemuel Shackford, the more respect- 
able inhabitants kept in-doors as much as practica- 
ble. From the first neither Mr. Craggie nor Law- 
yer Perkins had gone to the hotel to consult the 
papers in the reading-room, and Mr. Pinkham did 
not dare to play on his flute of an evening. The 
Rev. Arthur Langly found it politic to do but little 
visiting in the parish. His was not the pinion to 
buffet with a wind like this, and indeed he was not 
explicitly called upon to do so. He sat sorrowfully 
in his study day by day, preparing the weekly ser- 
mon, — a gentle, pensive person, inclined in the 
best of weather to melancholia. If Mr. Langly 
had gone into arboriculture instead of into the min- 
istry, he would have planted nothing but weeping- 
willows. 

In the mean time the mill directors continued 
their deliberations in the bank building, and had 
made several abortive attempts to effect an arrange- 
ment with the leaders of the union. This seemed 
ivery hour less possible and more necessary. 

On the afternoon of the seventh day of the strike 
^ crowd gathered in front of the residence of Mr, 
Alexander, the superintendent of the Miantowona 
Iron Works, and began groaning and hooting. Mr 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


199 


A^lexander sought out Mr. Craggie, and urged him, 
as a man of local weight and one accustomed to ad- 
dressing the populace, to speak a few words to tho 
mob. That was setting Mr. Craggie on the horns 
of a cruel dilemma. He was afraid to disoblige the 
representative of so powerful a corporation as the 
Miantowona Iron Works, but he equally dreaded 
to risk his popularity with seven or eight hundred 
voters ; so, like the crafty chancellor in Tennyson’s 
poem, he dallied with his golden chain, and, smil- 
ing, put the question by. 

‘‘ Drat the man ! ” muttered Mr. Craggie, does 
he want to blast my whole political career ! I can’t 
pitch into our adopted countrymen.” 

There was a blot on the escutcheon of Mr. Crag- 
gie which he was very anxious not to have uncov- 
ered by any chance in these latter days, — his an- 
eient affiliation with, the deceased native American 
party. 

The mob dispersed without doing damage, but 
ihe fact that it had collected and had shown an 
Ugly temper sent a thrill of apprehension through 
he village. Mr. Slocum came in a great flurry to 
Richard. 

‘‘ This thing ought to be stopped,” said Mr. Slo- 
&um. 

“ I agree to that,” replied Richard, bracing him 
lelf not to agree to anything else. 


200 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ If we were to drop that stipulation as to the 
increase of apprentices, no doubt many of the men 
would give over insisting on an advance.” 

“ Our only salvation is to stick to our right to 
train as many workmen as we choose. The ques* 
tion of wages is of no account compared with that 5 
the rate of wages will adjust itself.” 

“ If we could manage it somehow with the mar- 
ble workers,” suggested Mr. Slocum, “ that would 
demoralize the other trades, and they ’d be obliged 
to fall in.” 

“ I don’t see that they lack demoralization.” 

If something is n’t done, they ’ll end by knock- 
ing in our front doors or burning us all up.” 

Let them.” 

‘‘ It ’s very well to say let them,” exclaimed Mr. 
Slocum, petulantly, when you have n’t any front 
door to be knocked in ! ” 

“ But I have you and Margaret to consider, if 
there were actual danger. When anything like 
violence threatens, there ’s an honest shoulder for 
every one of the hundred and fifty muskets in the 
armory.” 

Those muskets might get on the wrong shoul- 
ders.” 

That is n’t likely. You do not seem to know 
%ir, that there is a strong guard at the armory day 
‘Uid night.” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


201 


I was not aware of that.” 

“ It is a fact all the same,” said Richard ; and 
Mr. Slocum went away easier in his mind, and re- 
mained so — two or three hours. 

On the eighth, ninth, and tenth days the clouds 
lay very black along the horizon. The marble 
workers, who began to see their mistake^s^ere re- 
proaching the foundry men with enticing them into 
the coalition, and the spinners were hot in their de- 
nunciations of the molders. Ancient personal an- 
tagonisms that had been slumbering started to their 
feet. Torrini fell out of favor, and in the midst of 
one of his finest perorations uncomplimentary mis- 
siles, selected from the animal kingdom, had been 
thrown at him. The grand torchlight procession 
on the night of the ninth culminated in a disturb- 
ance, in which many men got injured, several bad- 
ly, and the windows of Brackett’s bakery were 
stove in. A point of light had pierced the dark- 
ness,. — the trades were quarreling among them- 
selves 1 

The selectmen had sworn in special constables 
imong the citizens, and some of the more retired 
streets were now patrolled after dark, for there had 
been threats of incendiarism. 

Bishop’s stables burst into flames one midnight, 
— whether fired intentionally or accidentally was 


202 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


not known ; but the giant bellows at Dana’s Mills 
was slit and two belts were cut at the Miantowona 
Iron Works that same night. 

At this juncture a report that out-of-town hands 
were coming to replace the strikers acted on the 
public mind like petroleum on fire. A large body 
of workmen assembled near the railway station, — 
to welcome them. There was another rumor which 
caused the marble workers to stare at each other 
aghast. It was to the effect that Mr. Slocum, hav- 
ing long meditated retiring from business, had now 
decided to do so, and was consulting with Wynd- 
ham, the keeper of the green-house, about removing 
the division wall and turning the marble yard into 
a peach garden. This was an unlooked-for solution 
of the difficulty. Stillwater without any Slocum’s 
Marble Yard was chaos come again. 

“Good Lord, boys I ” cried Piggott, “if Slocum 
should do that ! ” 

Meanwhile, Snelling’s bar had been suppressed 
by the authorities, and a posse of policemen, bor- 
rowed from South Millville, occupied the premises. 
Knots of beetle-browed men, no longer in holiday 
gear, but chiefly in their shirt-sleeves, collected from 
time to time at the head of the main street, and 
glowered threateningly at the single policeman pao 
mg the porch of the tavern. The Stillwater Grays 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


203 


were under arms in the armory over Diindon’s drug- 
store. The thoroughfares had ceased to be safe for 
any one, and Margaret’s merciful errands were nec- 
essarily brought to an end. How the poor creat- 
ures who had depended on her bounty now contin- 
ued to exist was a sorrowful problem. 

Matters were at this point, when on the morning 
of the thirteenth day Richard noticed the cadaver- 
ous face of a man peering into the yard through the 
slats of the main gate. Richard sauntered down 
there, with his hands in his pockets. The man was 
old Giles, and with him stood Lumley and Peterson, 
gazing thoughtfully at the sign outside, — 

NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON BUSINESS. 


The roughly lettered clapboard, which they had 
heedlessly passed a thousand times, seemed to have 
taken a novel significance to them. 

Richard, What ’s wanted there ? 

Griles. [^Very affably,'] We was lookin’ round 
for a job, Mr. Shackford. 

Richard. We are not taking on any hands at 
present. 

Criles. Didn’t know but you was. Somebodj 
laid you was. 

Richard. Somebody is mistaken. 



204 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Griles. Perhaps to-morrer, or nex’ day ? 

Richard. Rather doubtful, Giles. 

Giles. \TJneasily.'\ Mr. Slocum ain’t goin’ tc 
give up business, is he ? 

Richard, Why should n’t he, if it does n’t pay ? 
The business is carried on for his amusement and 
profit ; when the profit stops it won’t be amusing 
any longer. Mr. Slocum is not going to run the 
yard for the sake of the Marble Workers’ Asso- 
ciation. He would rather drive a junk-cart. He 
might be allowed to steer that himself. 

Giles. Oh I 

Richard. Good-morning, Giles. 

Giles. ’Mornin’, Mr. Shackford. 

Richard rushed back to Mr. Slocum. 

“ The strike is broken, sir I ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ The thing has collapsed ! The tide is turning, 
and has washed in a lot of dead wood! ” 

‘‘ Thank God I” cried Mr. Slocum. 

An hour or so later a deputation of four, consist- 
ing of Stevens, Denyven, Durgin, and Piggott, 
waited upon Mr. Slocum in his private office, and 
offered, on behalf of all the departments, to resume 
work at the old rates. 

Mr. Slocum replied that he had not objected tc 
the old rates, but the new, and that he accepteq 
^heir offer — conditionally. 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


205 


You have overlooked one point, Mr. Stevena ” 

“ Which one, sir ? 

The apprentices.” 

‘‘ We thought you might not insist there, sir.” 

I insist on conducting my own business in my 
own way.” 

The voice was the voice of Slocum, but the back- 
bone was Richard’s. 

“ Then, sir, the Association don’t objeot to a 
reasonable number of apprentices.” 

How many is that ? ” 

“ As many as you want, I expect, sir,” said 
Stevens, shuffling his feet. 

‘‘Very well, Stevens. Go round to the front 
gate and Mr. Shackford will let you in.” 

There were two doors J:o the office, one leading 
into the yard, and the other, by which the deputa- 
tion had entered and was now making its exit, 
opened upon the street. 

Richard heaved a vast sigh of relief as he took 
down the beam securing the principal entrance. 

“ Good-morning, boys,” he chirped, with a smile 
as bright as newly minted gold. “ I hope you en- 
joyed yourselves.” 

The quartet ducked their heads bashfully, and 
Stevens replied, “ Can’t speak for the others, Mr 
Shackford, but I never enjoyed myself worse.” 


206 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Piggotfc lingered a moment behind the rest, and 
looking back over his shoulder said, That peach 
garden was what fetched us ! ” 

Eichard gave a loud laugh, for the peach garden 
bad been a horticultural invention of his own. 

In the course of the forenoon the majority of the 
hands presented themselves at the office, dropping 
into the yard in gangs of five or six, and nearly 
all were taken on. To dispose definitely of Lum- 
ley, Giles, and Peterson, they were not taken on 
at S?.ocum’s Yard, though they continued to be, 
directly or indirectly, Slocum’s pensioners, even 
after they were retired to the town farm. 

Once more the chisels sounded merrily under the 
long shed. That same morning the spinners went 
back to the mules, but the molders held out until 
nightfall, when it was signified to them that their 
demands would be complied with. 

The next day the steam-whistles of the Mian- 
towona Iron Works and Dana’s Mills sent the 
echoes flying beyond that undulating line of pines 
and hemlocks which half encircles Stillwater, and 
falls away loosely on either side, like an unclasped 
girdle. 

A calm, as if from out the cloudless blue sky 
that arched it day after day, seemed to drift down 
upon the village Han-Lin, with no more facia 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 207 

* 

expression than an orange, suddenly reappeared on 
the streets, and went about repairing his laundry, 
unmolested. The children were playing in the 
sunny lanes again, unafraid, and mothers sat oA 
doorsteps in the summer twilights, singing softly 
to the baby in arm. There was meat on the ta- 
ble, and the tea-kettle hummed comfortably at the 
back of the stove. The very winds that rustled 
through the fragrant pines, and wandered fitfully 
across the vivid green of the salt marshes, breathed 
peace and repose. 

Then, one morning, this blissful tranquillity was 
rudely shattered. Old Mr. Lemuel Shackford had 
been found murdered in his own house in Welch’s 
Court. 


XVIII. 


The general effect on Stillwater of Mr. Shack- 
ford’s death and the peculiar circumstances attend- 
ing the tragedy have been set forth in the earlier 
chapters of this narrative. The influence which 
that event exerted upon several persons then but 
imperfectly known to the reader is now to occupy 
us. 

On the conclusion of the strike, Richard had re- 
turned, in the highest spirits, to his own rooms in 
Lime Street; but the quiet week that followed 
found him singularly depressed. His nerves had 
been strung to their utmost tension during those 
thirteen days of suspense ; he had assumed no light 
responsibility in the matter of closing the yard, 
and there had been moments when the task of sus- 
taining Mr. Slocum had appeared almost hopeless. 
Now that the strain was removed a reaction set 
in, and Richard felt himself unnerved by the flee- 
ing shadow of the trouble which had not caused 
him to flinch so long as it faced him. 

On the morning and at the moment when Mary 
Hennessey was pushing open the scullery door ol 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


209 


the house in Welch’s Court, and was about tc 
eome upon the body of the forlorn old man lying 
there in his night-dress, Richard sat eating his 
breakfast in a silent and preoccupied mood. He 
had retired very late the previous night, and his 
lack-lustre eyes showed the effect of insufficient 
sleep. His single fellow-boarder, Mr. Pinkham, 
had not returned from his customary early walk, 
and only Richard and Mrs. Spooner, the landlady, 
were at table. The former was in the act of lift- 
ing the coffee-cup to his lips, when the school- 
master burst excitedly into the room. 

‘‘ Old Mr. Shackford is dead ! ” he exclaimed, 
dropping into a chair near the door. There ’s a 
report down in the village that he has been mur- 
dered. I don’t know if it is true God for- 

give my abruptness ! I did n’t think ! ” and Mr. 
Pinkham turned an apologetic face towards Rich- 
ard, who sat there deathly pale, holding the cup 
rigidly within an inch or two of his lip, and star- 
ing blankly into space like a statue. 

“I — I ought to have reffected,” murmured the 
school-master, covered with confusion at his mala- 
droitness. “ It was very reprehensible in Craggie 
to make such an announcement to me so suddenly, 
on a street corner. I — I was quite upset by it.” 

Richard pushed back his chair without replying 
14 


210 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


and passed into the hall, where he encountered a 
messenger from Mr. Slocum, confirming Mr. Pink- 
ham’s intelligence, but supplementing it with the 
rumor that Lemuel Shackford had committed sui- 
cide. 

Eichard caught up his hat from a table, and 
hurried to Welch’s Court. Before reaching the 
house he had somewhat recovered his outward com- 
posure ; but he was still pale and internally much 
agitated, for he had received a great shock, as Law- 
yer Perkins afterwards observed to Mr. Ward in 
the reading-room of the tavern. Both these gentle- 
men were present when Richard arrived, as were 
also several of the immediate neighbors and two 
constables. The latter were guarding the door 
against the crowd, which had already begun to col- 
lect in the front yard. 

A knot of carpenters, with their tool-boxes on 
their shoulders, had halted at the garden gate on 
their way to Bishop’s new stables, and were glanc- 
ing curiously at the unpainted facade of the house, 
which seemed to have taken on a remote, bewil- 
dered expression, as if it had an inarticulate sense 
of the horror within. The men ceased their whis- 
pered conversation as Richard approached, and re- 
spectfully moved aside to let him pass. 

Nothing had been changed in the cheerless room 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


211 


Dn the ground floor, with its veneered mahogany 
furniture and its yellowish leprous wall-paper, 
peeling off at the seams here and there. A cane- 
seated chair, overturned near the table, had been 
left untouched, and the body was stilt lying in the 
position in which the Hennessey girl had discovered 
it. A strange chill — something unlike any at- 
mospherical sharpness, a chill that seemed to exhale 
from the thin, pinched nostrils — permeated the 
apartment. The orioles were singing madly out- 
side, their vermilion bosoms glowing like live coals 
against the tender green of the foliage, and ap- 
pearing to break into flame as they took sudden 
flights hither and thither ; but within all was still. 
On entering the chamber Richard was smitten by 
the silence, — that silence which shrouds the dead, 
and is like no other. Lemuel Shackford had not 
been kind or cousinly ; he had blighted Richard’s 
childhood with harshness and neglect, and had 
lately heaped cruel insult upon him ; but as he 
stood there alone, and gazed for a moment at the 
firmly shut lips, upon which the mysterious white 
dust of death had already settled, — the lips that 
were never to utter any more bitter things, — the 
tears gathered in Richard’s eyes and ran slowly 
down his cheeks. After all said and done, Lemue. 
Sluickford was his kinsman, and blood is thickei 
than waiiu- 1 


5il2 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Coroner Whidden shortly appeared on the scene, 
accompanied by a number of persons ; a jury was 
impaneled, and then began that inquest which re- 
sulted in shedding so very little light on the catas- 
trophe. 

The investigation completed, there were endless 
details to attend to, — papers to be hurriedly ex- 
amined and sealed, and arrangements made for the 
funeral on the succeeding day. These matters oc- 
cupied Richard until late in the afternoon, when 
he retired to his lodgings, looking in on Margaret 
for a few minutes on his way home. 

“ This is too dreadful ! ” said Margaret, clinging 
to his hand, with fingers nearly as icy as his own. 

It is unspeakably sad,” answered Richard, — 
“ the saddest thing I ever knew.” 

“ Who — who could have been so cruel ? ” 

Richard shook his head. 

‘‘ No one knows.” 

The funeral took place on Thursday, and on Fri- 
day morning, as has been stated, Mr. Taggett ar- 
rived in Stillwater, and installed himself in Welch’s 
Court, to the wonder of many in the village, who 
would not have slept a night in that house, with 
only a servant in the north gable, for half the uni- 
verse. Mr. Taggett was a person who did not allo^ 
himself to be swayed by his imagination. 


THE STILLWATEK TRAGEDY. 


213 


Here, then, he began his probing of a case which, 
on the surface, promised to be a very simple one. 
The man who had been seen driving rapidly along 
the turnpike sometime near daybreak, on Wednes- 
day, was presumably the man who could tell him all 
about it. But it did not prove so. Neither Thomas 
Blufton, nor William Durgin, nor any of the tramps 
subsequently obliged to drop into autobiography 
could be connected with the affair. 

These first failures served to stimulate Mr. Tag- 
gett ; it required a complex case to stir his ingenu- 
ity and sagacity. That the present was not a com- 
plex case he was still convinced, after four days^ 
futile labor upon it. Mr. Shackford had been 
killed — either with malice prepense or on the spur 
of the moment — for his money. The killing had 
likely enough not been premeditated ; the old man 
had probably opposed the robbery. Now, among 
the exceptionally rough population of the town 
there were possibly fifty men who would not have 
hesitated to strike down Mr. Shackford if he had 
caught flagrante delicto and resisted them, or 
attempted to call for succor. That the crime was 
committed by some one in Stillwater or in the 
neighborhood Mr. Taggett had never doubted since 
ihe day of his arrival. The clumsy manner in 
which the staple had been wrenched from the seal- 


214 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


lery door showed the absence of a professional 
hand. Then the fact that the deceased was in the 
habit of keeping money in his bedchamber was a 
fact well known in the village, and not likely to be 
known outside of it, though of course it might have 
been. It was clearly necessary for Mr. Taggett to 
carry his investigation into the workshops and 
among the haunts of the class which was indubi- 
tably to furnish him with the individual he wanted. 
Above all, it was necessary that the investigation 
should be secret. An obstacle obtruded itself here : 
everybody in Stillwater knew everybody, and a 
stranger appearing on the streets or dropping fre- 
quently into the tavern would not escape comment. 

The man with the greatest facility for making 
the requisite researches would of course be some 
workman. But a workman was the very agent not 
to be employed under the circumstances. How 
many times, and by what strange fatality, had a 
guilty party been selected to shadow his own move- 
ments, or those of an accomplice ! No, Mr. Tag- 
gett must rely only on himself, and his plan was 
forthwith matured. Its execution, however, was 
delayed several days, the cooperation of Mr. Slo- 
cum and Mr. Richard Shackford being indispensa- 
ble. 

At this stage Richard went to New York, where 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 215 

iiis cousin had made extensive investments in real 
estate. For a careful man, the late Mr. Shackford 
had allowed his affairs there to become strangely 
tangled. The business would detain Richard a 
fortnight. 

Three days after his departure Mr. Taggett him- 
self left Stillwater, having apparently given up the 
case ; a proceeding which was severely criticised, 
not only in the columns of The Stillwater Gazette, 
but by the townsfolks at large, who immediately 
relapsed into a state of apprehension approximat- 
ing that of the morning when the crime was discov- 
ered. Mr. Pinkham, who was taking tea that 
evening at the Danas’, threw the family into a 
panic by asserting his belief that this was merely 
the first of a series of artistic assassinations in the 
manner of those Memorable Murders recorded by 
De Quincey. Mr. Pinkham may have said this to 
impress the four Dana girls with the variety of his 
reading, but the recollection of De Quincey’s har- 
rowing paper had the effect of so unhinging the 
young school-master that when he found himself, 
an hour or two afterwards, in the lonely, unlighted 
street he flitted home like a belated ghost, and was 
ready to drop at every tree-box. 

The next forenoon a new hand was taken on at 
Slocum’s Yard. The new hand, who had come on 


216 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


foot from South Millville, at which town he had 
been set down by the seven o’clock express that 
morning, was placed in the apprentice department, 
— there were five or six apprentices now. Though 
all this was part of an understood arrangement, Mr. 
Slocum nearly doubted the fidelity of his own eyes 
when Mr. Taggett, a smooth-faced young fellow of 
one and twenty, if so old, with all the traits of an 
ordinary workingman down to the neglected finger- 
nails, stepped up to the desk to have the name of 
Blake entered on the pay-roll. Either by chance 
or by design, Mr. Taggett had appeared but seldom 
on the streets of Stillwater ; the few persons who 
had had anything like familiar intercourse with 
him in his professional capacity were precisely the 
persons with whom his present movements were not 
likely to bring him into juxtaposition, and he ran 
slight risk of recognition by others. With hjs hair 
closely cropped, and the overhanging brown mus- 
tache removed, the man was not so much disguised 
as transformed. I should n’t have known him ! ” 
muttered Mr. Slocum, as he watched Mr. Taggett 
passing from the oflBce with his hat in his hand. 
During the ensuing ten or twelve days Mr. Slocum 
never wholly succeeded in extricating himself from 
the foggy uncertainty generated by that one brief 
interview. From the moment Mr. Taggett was aa^ 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 217 

ligned a bench under the sheds, Mr. Slocum saw 
little or nothing of him. 

Mr. Taggett took lodging in a room in one of the 
most crowded of the low boarding-houses, — a room 
accommodating two beds besides his own : the first 
occupied by a brother neophyte in marble-cutting, 
and the second by a morose middle-aged man with 
one eyebrow a trifie higher than the other, as if it 
had been wrenched out of line by the strain of ha- 
bitual intoxication. This man’s name was Wollas* 
ton, and he worked at Dana’s. 

Mr. Taggett’s initial move was to make himself 
popular in the marble yard, and especially at the 
tavern, where he spent money freely, though not 
so freely as to excite any remark except that the 
lad was running through pretty much all his small 
pay, — a recklessness which was charitably con- 
doned in Snelling’s bar-room. He formed multi- 
farious friendships, and had so many sensible views 
on the labor problem, advocating the general extin- 
guishment of capitalists, and so on, that his admit- 
tance to the Marble Workers’ Association resolved 
itself into merely a question of time. The old prej- 
udice against apprentices was already wearing off 
The quiet, evasive man of few words was now a lo- 
quacious talker, holding his own with the hardest 
hitters, and very skillful in giving offense to no one. 


218 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Whoever picks up Blake for a fool,” Dexter re- 
marked one night, will put him down again.’ 
Not a shadow of suspicion followed Mr. Taggett in 
his various comings and goings. He seemed merely 
a good-natured, intelligent devil ; perhaps a little 
less devilish and a trifle more intelligent than the 
rest, but not otherwise different. Denyven, Peters, 
Dexter, Willson, and others in and out of the Slo- 
cum clique were Blake’s sworn friends. In brief, 
Mr. Taggett had the amplest opportunities to pros- 
ecute his studies. Only for a pained look which 
sometimes latterly shot into his eyes, as he worked 
at the bench, or as he walked alone in the street, 
one would have imagined that he was thoroughly 
enjoying the half-vagabond existence. 

The supposition would have been erroneous, for 
in the progress of those fourteen days’ apprentice- 
ship Mr. Taggett had received a wound in the most 
sensitive part of his nature : he had been forced to 
give up what no man ever relinquishes without a 
wrench, — his own idea. 

With the exception of an accident in Dana’s 
Mill, by which Torrini’s hand had been so badly 
mangled that amputation was deemed necessary, 
the two weeks had been eventless outside of Mr. 
Taggett’s personal experience. What that expo 
lienee was will transpire in its proper place. Mar 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


21Q 


garet was getting daily notes from Richard, anA 
Mr. Slocum, overburdened with the secret of Mr. 
Taggett’s presence in the yard, — a secret confined 
exclusively to Mr. Slocum, Richard, and Justice 
Beemis, — was restlessly awaiting developments. 

The developments came that afternoon when Mr. 
Taggett walked into the office and startled Mr. 
Slocum, sitting at the desk. The two words which 
Mr. Taggett then gravely and coldly whispered m 
Mr. Slocum’s ear were, — 

“ Richabd Shackfobd.’^ 


) 


XIX. 


Mr. Slocum, who had partly risen from the 
chair, sank back into his seat. “ Good God ! ” he 
Baid, turning very pale. Are you mad ! ” 

Mr. Taggett realized the cruel shock which the 
pronouncing of that name must have caused Mr. 
Slocum. Mr. Taggett had meditated his line of 
action, and had decided that the most merciful 
course was brusquely to charge young Shackford 
with the crime, and allow Mr. Slocum to sustain 
himself for a while with the indignant disbelief 
which would be natural to him, situated as he was. 
He would then in a manner be prepared for the 
revelations which, if suddenly presented, would 
crush him. 

If Mr. Taggett was without imagination, as he 
claimed, he was not without a certain feminine 
quickness of sympathy often found in persons en- 
gaged in professions calculated to blunt the finer 
sensibilities. In his intercourse with Mr. Slocum 
at the Shackford house, Mr. Taggett had been 
won by the singular gentleness and simplicity of 
^he man, and was touched by his misfortune. 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


221 


After his exclamation Mr. Slocum did not speak 
for a moment or two, but with his elbows resting 
on the edge of the desk sat motionless, like a per- 
son stunned. Then he slowly lifted his face, to 
which the color had returned, and making a move- 
ment with his right hand as if he were sweeping 
away cobwebs in front of him rose from the chair. 

“ You are simply mad,” he said, looking Mr. 
Taggett squarely and calmly in the eyes. “ Are 
you aware of Mr. Richard Shackford’s character 
and his position here ? ” 

Perfectly.” 

‘‘ Do you know that he is to marry my daugh- 
ter?” 

“ I am very sorry for you, sir.” 

You may spare me that. It is quite unneces- 
sary. You have fallen into some horrible delusion. 
I hope you will be able to explain it.” 

‘‘ I am prepared to do so, sir.” 

“ Are you serious ? ” 

“ Very serious, Mr. Slocum.” 

‘‘ You actually imagine that Richard Shackford 
- Pshaw ! It ’s simply impossible ! ” 

“ I am too young a man to wish even to seen' 
wiser than you, but my experience has taught me 
that nothing is impossible.’’ 

“ I begin to believe so myself. I suppose you 


222 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


have grounds, or something you consider grounds^ 
for your monstrous suspicion. What are they ? 1 

demand to be fully informed of what you have 
been doing in the yard, before you bring disgrace 
upon me and my family by inconsiderately acting 
on some wild theory which perhaps ten words can 
refute.” 

I should be in the highest degree criminal, Mr. 
Slocum, if I were to make so fearful an accusation 
against any man unless I had the most incontest- 
able evidence in my hands.” 

Mr. Taggett spoke with such cold-blooded con- 
viction that a chill crept over Mr. Slocum, in spite 
of him. 

“ What is the nature of this evidence ? ” 

“ Up to the present stage, purely circumstan- 
tial.” 

“ I can imagine that,” said Mr. Slocum, with a 
slight smile. 

“But so conclusive as to require no collateral 
evidence. The testimony of an eye-witness of the 
crime could scarcely add to my knowledge ot what 
occurred that Tuesday night in Lemuel Shackford’s 
house.” 

“ Indeed, it is all so clear I But of course a few 
eye-witnesses will turn up eventually,” said Mr. 
Slocum, whose whiteness about the li[)s discounted 
the assurance of his sarcasm. 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 22S 

‘‘ That is not improbable,” returned Mr. Tag- 
gett gravely. 

And meanwhile what are the facts ? ” 

“ They are not easily stated. I have kept a rec- 
ord of my work day by day, since the morning I 
entered the yard. The memoranda are necessarily 
confused, the important and the unimportant being 
jumbled together; but the record as it stands will 
answer your question more fully than I could, even 
if I had the time — which I have not — to go over 
the case with you. I can leave these notes in your 
hands, if you desire it. V/hen I return from New 
York” — 

You are going to New York ! ” exclaimed Mr. 
Slocum, with a start. When ?” 

“ This evening.” 

“ If you lay a finger on Richard Shackford, you 
will make the mistake of your life, Mr. Taggett I ” 

“ I have other business there. Mr. Shackford 
will be in Stillwater to-morrow night. He en- 
gaged a state-room on the Fall River boat this 
morning.” 

“ How can you know that ? ” 

Since last Tuesday none of his movements 
aave been unknown to me.” 

“ Do you mean to say that you have set youi 
miserable spies upon him ? ” cried Mr. Slocum. 


224 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ I should not state the fact in just those words,’ 
Mr. Taggett answered. “ The fact remains.” 

Pardon me,” said Mr. Slocum. I am not 
quite myself. Can you wonder at it ? ” 

“ I do not wonder.” 

“ Give me those papers you speak of, Mr. Tag- 
gett. I would like to look through them. I see 
that you are a very obstinate person when you have 
once got a notion into your head. Perhaps I can 
help you out of your error before it is irreparable.” 
Then, after hesitating a second, Mr. Slocum added, 
“ I may speak of this to my daughter ? Indeed, 
I could scarcely keep it from her.” 

Perhaps it is better she should be informed.” 

“ And Mr. Shackford, when he returns to-mor- 
row? ” 

‘‘ If he broaches the subject of his cousin’s death, 
I advise you to avoid it.” 

“Why should I?” 

“ It might save you or Miss Slocum some awk- 
wardness, — but you must use your own discre- 
tion. As the matter stands it makes no difference 
whether Mr. Shackford knows his position to-day 
or to-morrow. It is too late for him to avail him- 
Belf of the knowledge. Otherwise, of course, I 
should not have given myself away in this fash 
ion.” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


225 


“ Very well,” said Mr. Slocum, with an impa- 
tient movement of his shoulders; ‘^neither I nor 
my daughter will open our lips on this topic. In 
the mean while you are to take no further steps 
without advising me. That is understood ? ” 

“ That is perfectly understood,” returned Mr. 
Taggett, drawing a narrow red note-book from the 
inner pocket of his workman’s blouse, and produc- 
ing at the same time a small nickel-plated door- 
key. This is the key of Mr. Shackford’s private 
workshop in the extension. I have not been able 
to replace it on the mantel-shelf of his sitting-room 
in Lime Street. Will you have the kindness to see 
that that is done at once ? ” 

A moment later Mr. Slocum stood alone in the 
office, with Mr. Taggett’s diary in his hand. It 
was one of those costly little volumes — gilt-edged 
and bound in fragrant crushed Levant morocco — 
with which city officials are annually supplied by a 
community of grateful taxpayers. 

The dark crimson of the flexible covers, as soft 
ind slippery to the touch as a snake’s skin, was 
perhaps the fitting symbol of the darker story that 
lay coiled within. With a gesture of repulsion, as 
if some such fancy had flitted through his mind, 
Mr. Slocum tossed the note book on the desk in 
Iront of him, and stood a few minutes moodily 
u 


226 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


watching the reflets of the crinkled leather as the 
afternoon sunshine struck across it. Beneath his 
amazement and indignation he had been chilled to 
the bone by Mr. Taggett’s brutal confidence. It 
was enough to chill one, surely ; and in spite of 
himself Mr. Slocum began to feel a certain inde- 
finable dread of that little crimson-bound book. 

Whatever it contained, the reading of those 
pages was to be a repellent task to him ; it was a 
task to which he could not bring himself at the mo- 
ment ; to-night, in the privacy of his own chamber, 
he would sift Mr. Taggett’s baleful fancies. Thus 
temporizing, Mr. Slocum dropped the volume into 
his pocket, locked the oflice door behind him, and 
wandered down to Dundon’s drug-store to kill the 
intervening hour before supper-time. Dundon’s 
was the aristocratic lounging place of the village, 
— the place where the only genuine Havana cigars 
in Stillwater were to be had, and where the favored 
few, the initiated, could get a dash of hochheimer 
or cognac with their soda-water. 

At supper, that evening, Mr. Slocum addressed 
scarcely a word to Margaret, and Margaret was 
also silent. The days were dragging heavily with 
her ; she was missing Richard. Her own daring 
travels had never extended beyond Boston or Provi 
dence ; and New York, with Richard in it, seemei 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


227 


drearily far away. Mr. Slocum withdrew to his 
chamber shortly after nine o’clock, and, lighting 
the pair of candles on the dressing-table, began his 
examination of Mr. Taggett’s memoranda. 

At midnight the watchman on his lonely beat 
aaw those two candles still burning. 


XX. 


Me. Taggett^s diary was precisely a diary, — 
disjoined, full of curt, obscure phrases and irrel- 
evant reflections, — for which reason it will not be 
reproduced here. Though Mr. Slocum pondered 
every syllable, and now and then turned back pain- 
fully to reconsider some doubtful passage, it is not 
presumed that the reader will care to do so. An 
abstract of the journal, with occasional quotation 
where the writer’s words seem to demand it, will 
be sufficient for the narrative. 

In the opening pages Mr. Taggett described his 
novel surroundings with a minuteness which con- 
trasted oddly with the brief, hurried entries further 
on. He found himself, as he had anticipated, in a 
society composed of some of the most heterogeneous 
elements. Stillwater, viewed from a certain point, 
was a sort of microcosm, a little international rag- 
fair to which nearly every country on earth had 
contributed one of its shabby human products, I 
am moving,” wrote Mr. Taggett, ‘‘ in an atmos- 
phere in which any crime is possible. I give my- 
self seven days at the outside to light upon the 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


229 


traces of Shg^ckford’s murderer. I feel him in the 
air.” The writer’s theory was that the man would 
betray his identity in one of two ways : either by 
talking unguardedly, or by indulging in expendi- 
tures not warranted by his means and position. If 
several persons had been concerned in the crime^ 
nothing was more likely than a disagreement over 
the spoil, and consequent treachery on the part of 
one of them. Or, again, some of the confederates 
might become alarmed, and attempt to save them- 
selves by giving away their comrades. Mr. Tag- 
gett, however, leaned to the belief that the assassin 
had had no accomplices. 

The sum taken from Mr. Shackford’s safe was a 
comparatively large one, — five hundred dollars in 
gold and nearly double that amount in bank-notes. 
Neither the gold nor the paper bore any known 
mark by which it could be recognized ; the burglar 
had doubtless assured himself of this, and would 
not hesitate to disburse the money. That was 
even a safer course, judiciously worked, than to 
secrete it. The point was. Would he have suffi- 
cient self-control to get rid of it by degrees ? The 
chances, Mr. Taggett argued, were ten to one he 
would not. 

A few pages further on Mr. Taggett c6mpli- 
ments the Unknown on the adroit manner in whict 


230 THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 

he is conducting himself. He has neither let slij 
a suspicious word, nor made an incautious display 
of his booty. Snelling’s bar was doing an unusu- 
ally light business. No one appeared to have any 
money. Many of the men had run deeply into 
debt during the late strike, and were now drink- 
ing moderately. In the paragraph which closes the 
week’s record Mr. Taggett’s chagrin is evident. 
He confesses that he is at fault. My invisible 
friend does not materialize so successfully as I ex- 
pected,” is Mr. Taggett’s comment. 

His faith in the correctness of his theory had 
not abated ; but he continued his observations in a 
less sanguine spirit. These observations were not 
limited to the bar-room or the workshop ; he in- 
formed himself of the domestic surroundings of 
his comrades. Where his own scrutiny could not 
penetrate, he employed the aid of correspondents. 
He knew what workmen had money in the local 
savings-bank, and the amount of each deposit. In 
the course of his explorations of the shady side 
of Stillwater life, Mr. Taggett unearthed many 
amusing and many pathetic histories, but nothing 
that served his end. Finally, he began to be dis- 
couraged. 

Returning home from the tavern, one night, ip 
A rather desponding mood, he found the man 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


231 


W'ollaston smoking his pipe in bed. Wollaston 
was a taciturn man generally, but this night he 
was conversational, and Mr. Taggett, too restless 
to sleep, fell to chatting with him. Did he know 
much about the late Mr. Shackford? Yes, he had 
known him well enough, in an off way, — not to 
speak to him ; everybody knew him in Stillwater ; 
he was a sort of miser, hated everybody, and bul- 
lied everybody. It was a wonder somebody did n’t 
knock the old silvertop on the head years ago. 

Thus Mr. Wollaston grimly, with his pores 
stopped up with iron-filings, — a person to whom 
it would come quite easy to knock any one on the 
head for a slight difference of opinion. He amused 
Mr. Taggett in his present humor. 

No, he was n’t aware that Shackford had had 
trouble with any particular individual ; believed he 
did have a difficulty once with Slocum, the marble 
man ; but he waer always fetching suits against the 
town and shying lawyers at the mill directors, — 
a disagreeable old cuss altogether. Adopted his 
cousin, one time, but made the house so hot for him 
that the lad ran off to sea, and since then had had 
nothing to do with the old bilk. 

Indeed I What sort of fellow was young Shack- 
ford? Mr. Wollaston could not say of his own 
knowledge ; thought him a plucky chap ; he had 


232 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


put a big Italian named Torrini out of the yard, one 
day, for talking back. Who was Torrini ? The 
man that got hurt last week in the Dana Mill. Who 
were Richard Shackford’s intimates ? Could n’t 
say; had seen him with Mr. Pinkham, the schooL 
master, and Mr. Craggie, — went with the upper 
crust generally. Was going to be partner in the 
marble yard and marry Slocum’s daughter. Will 
Durgin knew him. They lived together one time. 
He, Wollaston, was going to turn in now. 

Several of these facts were not new to Mr. Tag- 
gett, but Mr. Wollaston’s presentation of them 
threw Mr. Taggett into a reverie. 

The next evening he got Durgin alone in a 
corner of the bar-room. With two or three pota- 
tions Durgin became autobiographical. Was he 
acquainted with Mr. Shackford outside the yard? 
Rather. Dick Shackford ! His (Durgin’s) mother 
had kept Dick from starving when he was a baby, 
— and no thanks for it. Went to school with him, 
and knew all about his running off to sea. Was 
near going with him. Old man Shackford never 
liked Dick, who was a proud beggar ; they could n’t 
pull together, down to the last, — both of a piece. 
They had a jolly rumpus a little while before the 
Did man was fixed. 

Mr Taggett pricked up his ears at this. 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


233 


A rumpus ? How did Durgin know that ? A 
girl told him. What girl ? A girl he was sweet 
on. What was her name ? Well, he did n’t mind 
telling her name; it was Molly Hennessey. She 
was going through Welch’s Court one forenoon,— 
may be it was three days before the strike, — and 
saw Dick Shackford bolt out of the house, swing- 
ing his arms and swearing to himself at an awful 
rate. Was Durgin certain that Molly Hennessey 
had told him this ? Yes, he was ready to take his 
oath on it. 

Here, at last, was something that looked like a 
glimmer of daylight. 

It was possible that Durgin or the girl had lied ; 
but the story had an air of truth to it. If it were 
a fact that there had recently been a quarrel be- 
tween these cousins, whose uncousinly attitude to- 
wards each other was fast becoming clear to Mr. 
Taggett, then here was a conceivable key to an 
enigma which had puzzled him. 

The conjecture that Lemuel Shackford had him- 
Belf torn up the will — if it was a will, for this still 
remained in dispute — had never been satisfactory 
to Mr. Taggett. He had accepted it because he 
was unable to imagine an ordinary burglar paus- 
ing in the midst of his work to destroy a paper in 
which he could have no concern. But Richard 


234 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Shackford would have the liveliest possible interest 
in the destruction of a document that placed a vast 
estate beyond his reach. Here was a motive on a 
level with the crime. That money had been taken^ 
and that the fragments of the will had been care- 
lessly thrown into a waste-paper basket, just as if 
the old man himself had thrown them there, was a 
stroke of art which Mr. Taggett admired more and 
more as he reflected upon it. 

He did not, however, allow himself to lay too 
much stress on these points ; for the paper might 
turn out to be merely an expired lease, and the girl 
might have been quizzing Durgin. Mr. Taggett 
would have given one of his eye-teeth just then for 
ten minutes with Mary Hennessey. But an inter- 
view with her at this stage was neither prudent nor 
easily compassed. 

‘‘ If I have not struck a trail,” writes Mr. Tag- 
gett, I have come upon what strongly resembles 
one ; the least I can do is to follow it. My first 
move must be to inspect that private workshop in 
the rear of Mr. Slocum’s house. How shall I ac- 
complish it ? I cannot apply to him for permission, 
for that would provoke questions which I am not 
ready to answer. Moreover, I have yet to assure 
myself that Mr. Slocum is not implicated. There 
geems to have been also a hostile feeling existing 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


235 


between him and the deceased. Why did n’t some 
one tell me these things at the start ! If young 
Shackford is the person, there is a tangled storj 
to be unraveled. Mem : Young Shackford is Miss 
Slocum’s lover.” 

Mr. Slocum read this passage twice without draw- 
ing breath, and then laid down the book an instant 
to wipe the sudden perspiration from his forehead. 

In the note which followed, Mr. Taggett de- 
scribed the difficulty he met with in procuring a 
key to fit the wall-door at the rear of the marble 
yard, and gave an account of his failure to effect 
an entrance into the studio. He had hoped to find 
a window unfastened ; but the window, as well as 
the door opening upon the veranda, was locked, 
and in the midst of his operations, which were con- 
ducted at noon-time, the approach of a servant had 
obliged him to retreat. 

Forced to lay aside, at least temporarily, his de- 
signs on the workshop, he turned his attention to 
Richard’s lodgings in Lime Street. Here Mr. Tag- 
gett was more successful. On the pretext that he 
had been sent for certain drawings which were to 
be found on the table or in a writing-desk, he was 
permitted by Mrs. Spooner to ascend to the bed- 
room, where she obligingly insisted on helping hinj 
aearch for the apocryphal plans, and seriously inter- 


236 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


fered with liis purpose, which was to find the key 
of the studio. While Mr. Taggett was turning 
over the pages of a large dictionary, in order to 
gain time, and was wondering how he could rid 
himself of the old lady’s importunities, he came 
upon a half-folded note-sheet, at the bottom of 
which his eye caught the name of Lemuel Shack- 
ford. It was in the handwriting of the dead man. 
Mr. Taggett was very familiar with that handwrit- 
ing. He secured the paper at a venture, and put it 
in his pocket without examination. 

A few minutes later, it being impossible to pro- 
long the pretended quest for the drawings, Mr. 
Taggett was obliged to follow Mrs. Spooner from 
the apartment. As he did so he noticed a bright 
object lying on the corner of the mantel-shelf, — a 
small nickel-plated key. In order to take it he had 
only to reach out his hand in passing. It was, as 
Mr. Taggett had instantly surmised, the key of 
Richard’s workshop. 

If it had been gold, instead of brass or iron, that 
lit of metal would have taken no additional value 
in Mr. Taggett’s eyes. On leaving Mrs. Spooner’s 
he held it tightly clasped in his fingers until he 
reached an unfrequented street, where he halted a 
moment in the shadow of a building to inspect the 
paper, which he had half forgotten in his satisfao 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


237 


fcion at having obtained the key. A stifled cry 
rose to Mr. Taggett’s lips as he glanced over the 
crumpled note-sheet. 

It contained three lines, hastily scrawled in lead* 
pencil, requesting Richard Shackford to call at the 
house in Welch’s Court at eight o’clock on a cer- 
tain Tuesday night. The note had been written, as 
the date showed, on the day preceding the Tuesday 
night in question — the night of the murder ! 

For a second or two Mr. Taggett stood paralyzed. 
Ten minutes afterwards a message in cipher was 
pulsing along the wires to New York, and before 
the sun went down that evening Richard Shackford 
was under the surveillance of the police. 

The doubtful, unknown ground upon which Mr. 
Taggett had been floundering was now firm under 
his feet, — unexpected ground, but solid. Meeting 
Mary Hennessey in the street, on his way to the 
marble yard, Mr. Taggett no longer hesitated to 
accost her, and question her as to the story she 
had told William Durgin. The girl’s story was 
undoubtedly true, and as a piece of circumstantial 
evidence was only less important than the elder 
Shackford’s note. The two cousins had been for 
years on the worst of terms. At every step Mr. 
Taggett had found corroboration of Wollaston’s 
statement to that etiect. 


238 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Where were Coroner Whidden’s eyes and ears,’’ 
wrote Mr. Taggett, — the words were dashed down 
impatiently on the page, as if he had sworn a little 
internally while writing them, — ‘‘ when he con- 
ducted that inquest ! In all my experience there 
was never a thing so stupidly managed.” 

A thorough and immediate examination of Rich- 
ard Shackford’s private workshop was now so im- 
perative that Mr. Taggett resolved to make it even 
if he had to do so under the authority of a search- 
warrant. But he desired as yet to avoid publicity. 

A secret visit to the studio seemed equally diffi- 
cult by day and night. In the former case he was 
nearly certain to be deranged by the servants, and 
in the latter a light in the unoccupied room would 
alarm any one of the household who might chance 
to awaken. From the watchman no danger was to 
be apprehended, as the windows of the extension 
were not visible from the street. 

Mr. Taggett finally decided on the night as the 
more propitious time for his attempt, — a decision 
which his success justified. A brilliant moon fa- 
v'ored the in-door part of the enterprise, though it 
exposed him to observation in his approach fron3 
the marble yard to the veranda. 

With the dense moonlight streaming outside 
against the window-shades, he could safely have 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 239 

ased a candle in the studio instead of the screened 
lantern which he had provided. Mr. Taggett 
passed three hours in the workshop, — the Iasi 
hour in waiting for the moon to go down. Then 
he stole through the marble yard into the silent 
street, and hurried home, carrying two small arti- 
cles concealed under his blouse. The first was a 
chisel with a triangular piece broken out of the 
centre of the bevel, and the other was a box of 
safety-matches. The peculiarity of this box of 
matches was — that just one match had been used 
from it. 

Mr. Taggett’s work was done. 

The last seven pages of the diary were devoted 
to a review of the case, every detail of which was 
held up in various lights, and examined with the 
conscientious pains of a lapidary deciding on the 
value of a rare stone. The concluding entries ran 
as follows : — 

Tuesday Night. Here the case passes into 
other hands. I have been fortunate rather than 
skillful in unmasking the chief actor in one of the 
most singular crimes that ever came under my inves- 
tigation. By destroying three objects, very easily 
destroyed. Bichard Shackford would have put him- 
Belf beyond the dream of suspicion. He neglected to 
remove these dumb witnesses, and now the dumb 


240 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


witnesses speak I If it could be shown that he was 
a hundred miles from Stillwater at the time of the 
murder, instead of in the village, as he was, he 
must still be held, in the face of the proofs against 
him, accessory to the deed. These proofs, roughly 
summarized, are : — 

First. The fact that he had had an alterca- 
tion with his cousin a short time previous to the 
date of the murder, — a murder which may be re- 
garded not as the result of a chance disagreement, 
but of long years of bitter enmity between the two 
men. 

Secondly. The fact that Richard Shackford 
had had an appointment with his cousin on the 
night the crime was committed, and had concealed 
that fact from the authorities at the time of the 
coroner’s inquest. 

‘‘ Thirdly. That the broken chisel found in the 
private workshop of the accused explains the pe- 
culiar shape of the wound which caused Lemuel 
Shackford’s death, and corresponds in every par- 
ticular with the plaster impression taken of that 
wound. 

Fourthly. That the partially consumed match 
found on the scullery floor when the body was dis- 
covered (a style of match not used in the house in 
Welch’s Court) completes the complement of a boj 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 241 

of safety-matches belonging to Richard Shackford. 
and hidden in a closet in his workshop. 

“ Whether Shackford had an accomplice or not 
is yet to be ascertained. There is nothing what- 
ever to implicate Mr. Rowland Slocum. I make 
the statement because his intimate association with 
one party and his deep dislike of the other invited 
inquiry, and at first raised an unjust suspicion in 
my mind.” 

The little red book slipped from Mr. Slocum’s 
grasp and fell aWhis feet. As he rose from the 
chair, the reflection which he caught of himself in 
the dressing-table mirror was that of a wrinkled, 
white old man. 

Mr. Slocum did not believe, and no human evi- 
dence could have convinced him, that Richard had 
deliberately killed Lemuel Shackford ; but as Mr. 
Slocum reached the final pages of the diary, a hor- 
rible probability insinuated itself into his mind. 
Could Richard have done it accidentally ? Could 
be — in an instant of passion, stung to sudden mad- 
ness by that venomous old man — have struck him 
involuntarily, and killed him ? A certain speech 
which Richard had made in Mr. Slocum’s presence 
not long before came back to him now with fearful 
emphasis : — 

“ Three or four timeB in my life I have been car* 
16 


242 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


tied away hy a devil of a temper which I could rCt 
control^ it seized me so unawaresJ*^ 

“ It seized me so unawares I ” repeated Mr. Slo- 
cum, half aloud ; and then with a swift, unconscious 
gesture, he pressed his hands over his ears, as if to 
shut out the words. 


XXI. 


Maegaeet must be told. It would be like 
stabbing her to tell her all this. Mr. Slocum had 
lain awake long after midnight, appalled by the 
calamity that was about to engulf them. At mo- 
ments, as his thought reverted to Margaret’s illness 
early in the spring, he felt that perhaps it would 
have been a mercy if she had died then. He had 
left the candles burning ; it was not until the wicks 
sunk down in the sockets and went softly out that 
slumber fell upon him. 

He was now sitting at the breakfast-table, ab- 
sently crumbling bits of bread beside his plate and 
leaving his coffee untouched. Margaret glanced at 
him wistfully from time to time, and detected the 
restless night in the deepened lines of his face. 

The house had not been the same since Lemuel 
Shackford’s death ; he had never crossed its thresh 
old ; Margaret had scarcely known him by sight, 
and *Mr. Slocum had not spoken to him for years ; 
but Richard’s connection with the unfortunate old 
man had brought the tragic event very close to 


244 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Margaret and her father. Mr. Slocum was a per- 
son easily depressed, but his depression this morn- 
ing was so greatly in excess of the presumable 
cause that Margaret began to be troubled. 

Papa, has anything happened ? ’’ 

“ No, nothing new has happened ; but I am 
dreadfully disturbed by some things which Mr 
Taggett has been doing here in the village.” 

“ I thought Mr. Taggett had gone.” 

“ He did go ; but he came back very quietly 
without anybody’s knowledge. I knew it, of course 
but no one else, to speak of.” 

“ What has he done to disturb you ? ” 

“ I want you to be a brave girl, Margaret, — 
will you promise that ? ” 

‘‘Why, yes,” said Margaret, with an anxious 
look. “ You frighten me with your mysterious- 
ness.” 

“ [ do not mean to be mysterious, but I don’t 
quite know how to tell you about Mr. Taggett. 
He has been working underground in this matter 
of poor Shackford’s death, — boring in the dark 
.^ke a mole, — and thinks he has discovered some 
strange things.” 

“ Do you mean he thinks he has found out who 
killed Mr. Shackford?” 

^‘He believes he has fallen upon clews which 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


245 


will lead to that. The strange things I alluded 
tio are things which Richard will have to explain.” 
“ Richard ? What has he to do with it ? ” 

Not much, I hope ; but there are several mat- 
ters which he will be obliged to clear up in order 
to save himself from very great annoyance. Mr. 
Taggett seems to think that — that ” — 

“ Good Heaven, papa I What does he think ? ” 
‘‘ Margaret, he thinks that Richard knew some- 
thing about the murder, and has not told it.” 

What could he know ? Is that all ? ” 

No, that is not all. I am keeping the full 
truth from you, and it is useless to do so. You 
must face it like a brave girl. Mr. Taggett sus- 
pects Richard of being concerned, directly or in- 
directly, with the crime.” 

The color went from Margaret’s cheek for an 
instant. The statement was too horrible and sud- 
den not to startle her, but it was also too absurd 
to have more than an instant’s effect. Her quick 
recovery of herself reassured Mr. Slocum. Would 
she meet Mr. Taggett’s specific charges with the 
hke fortitude ? Mr. Slocum himself had been pros- 
trated by them ; he prayed to Heaven that Mar- 
garet might have more strength than he, as indeed 
she had. 

“ The man has got together a lot of circumstan* 


246 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


tial evidence,” continued Mr. Slocum cautiously 
“ some of it amounts to nothing, being mere con 
jecture ; but some of it will look badly for Richard, 
to outsiders.” 

‘‘ Of course it is all a mistake,” said Margaret, 
in nearly her natural voice. It ought to be easy 
to convince Mr. Taggett of that.” 

“ I have not been able to convince him.” 

“ But you will. What has possessed him to fall 
into such a ridiculous error ? ” 

‘‘ Mr. Taggett has written out everything at 
length in this memorandum-book, and you must 
read it for yourself. There are expressions and 
statements in these pages, Margaret, that will nec- 
essarily shock you very much ; but you should re- 
member, as I tried to while reading them, that Mr. 
Taggett has a heart of steel ; without it he would 
be unable to do his distressing work. The cold 
impartiality with which he sifts and heaps up cir- 
cumstances involving the doom of a fellow-creature 
*ippears almost inhuman ; but it is his business. 
No, don’t look at it here ! ” said Mr. Slocum, re- 
coiling ; he had given the book to Margaret. “ Take 
it into the other room, and read it carefully by 
yourself, When you have finished, come back and 
teL me what you think.” 

“ But, papa, surely you” — 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


247 


I don t believe anything Margaret ! I don’t 
know the true from the false any more 1 I want 
you to help me out of my confusion, and you can- 
not do it until you have read that book.” 

Margaret made no response, but passed into the 
parlor and closed the folding-doors behind her. 

After an absence of half an hour she reentered 
the breakfast room, and laid Mr. Taggett’s diary 
on the table beside her father, who had not moved 
from his place during the interval. Margaret’s 
manner was collected, but it was evident, by the 
dark circles under her eyes, and the set, colorless 
lips, that that half hour had been a cruel thirty 
minutes to her. In Margaret’s self-possession Mr. 
Slocum recognized, not for the first time, the crop- 
ping out of an ancestral trait which had somehow 
managed to avoid him in its wayward descent. 

“ Well ? ” he questioned, looking earnestly at 
Margaret, and catching a kind of comfort from her 
confident bearing. 

‘‘It is Mr. Taggett’s trade to find somebody 
guilty,” said Margaret, “ and he has been very 
ingenious and very merciless. He was plainly at 
his wits’ ends to sustain his reputation, and would 
not have hesitated to sacrifice any one rather than 
wrholly fail.” 

“ But you have been crying, Margaret.” 


248 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ How could I see Richard dragged down in th« 
dust in this fashion, and not be mortified and in- 
dignant ? ” 

‘‘ You don’t believe anything at all of this ? ” 

‘‘Do you?^^ asked Margaret, looking through 
and through him. 

“ I confess I am troubled.” 

“ If you doubt Richard for a second,” said Mar- 
garet, with a slight quiver of her lip, “ that will 
be the bitterest part of it to me.” 

“ I don’t give any more credit to Mr. Taggett’s 
general charges than you do, Margaret ; but I un- 
derstand their gravity better. A perfectly guiltless 
man, one able with a single word to establish his 
innocence, is necessarily crushed at first by an accu- 
sation of this kind. Now, can Richard set these 
matters right with a single word ? I am afraid he 
has a world of diflBculty before him.” 

“When he returns he will explain everything. 
How can you question it ? ” 

“ I do not wish to ; but there are two things in 
Mr. Taggett’s story which stagger me. The mo- 
tive for the destruction of Shackford’s papers,— 
that ’s not plain ; the box of matches is a puerility 
unworthy of a clever man like Mr. Taggett, and as 
to the chisel he found, why, there are a hundred 
Droken chisels in the village, and probably a score 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


249 


of them broken in precisely the same manner ; but, 
Margaret, did Richard ever breathe a word to you 
of that quarrel with his cousin ? ’’ 

mr 

“ He never mentioned it to me either. As mat 
ters stood between you and him, nothing was more 
natural than that he should have spoken of it to 
you, — so natural that his silence is positively 
strange.” 

‘‘ He may have considered it too unimportant. 
Mr. Shackford always abused Richard ; it was noth- 
ing new. Then, again, Richard is very proud, and 
perhaps he did not care to come to us just at that 
time with family grievances. Besides, how do we 
know they quarreled ? The village is full of gos- 
sip.” 

am certain there was a quarrel; it was only 
necessary for those two to meet to insure that. I 
distinctly remember the forenoon when Richard 
went to Welch’s Court; it was the day he dis- 
charged Torrini.” 

A little cloud passed over Margaret’s counte- 
nance. 

‘‘ They undoubtedly had angry words together,” 
cmtinued Mr. Slocum, “and we are forced to ac- 
cept the Hennessey girl’s statement. The reason 
you suggest for Richard’s not saying anything on 


250 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


the subject may suffice for us, but it will scarcely 
satisfy disinterested persons, and does n’t at ab 
cover another circumstance which must be taken in 
the same connection.” 

‘‘ What circumstance? ” 

“ His silence in regard to Lemuel Shackford’s 
note, — a note written the day before the murder, 
and making an appointment for the very night of 
it.” 

The girl looked steadily at her father. 

“ Margaret ! ” exclaimed Mr. Slocum, his face il- 
luminated with a flickering hope as he met her un- 
troubled gaze, did Richard tell you? ” 

No,” replied Margaret. 

‘‘ Then he told no one,” said Mr. Slocum, with 
the light fading out of his features again. ‘‘ It was 
madness in him to conceal the fact. He should not 
have lost a moment, after the death of his cousin, 
in making that letter public. It ought instantly to 
have been placed in Coroner Whidden’s hands. 
Richard’s action is inconceivable, unless — un- 
less ” — 

“ Do not say it ! ” cried Margaret. ‘‘ I should 
never forgive you ! ” 

In recapitulating the points of Mr. Taggett’s ac- 
cusation, Mr. Slocum had treated most of them aa 
trivial ; but he had not been sincere. He knew 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


251 


that that broken chisel had no duplicate in Still- 
water, and that the finding of it in Richard’s closet 
rras a black fact. Mr. Slocum had also glossed over 
the quarrel ; but that letter I — the likelihood that 
Richard kept the appointment, and his absolute si- 
lence concerning it, — here was a grim thing which 
no sophistry could dispose of. It would be wrong- 
ing Margaret to deceive her as to the vital serious- 
ness of Richard’s position. 

“ Why, why did he hide it ! ” Mr. Slocum per- 
sisted. 

I do not see that he really hid it, papa. He 
shut the note in a book lying openly on the table, 
— a dictionary, to which any one in the household 
was likely to go. You think Mr. Taggett a person 
of great acuteness.” 

“ He is a very intelligent person, Margaret.” 

‘‘ He appears to me very short-sighted. If Rich- 
ard were the dreadful man Mr. Taggett supposes, 
that paper would have been burnt, and not left 
for the first comer to pick up. I scorn myself 
hv stooping to the suggestion I ” 

‘‘ There is something in the idea,” said Mr. Slo- 
cum slowly. But why lid Richard never mention 
the note, — to you, or to me, or to anybody ? ” 

‘‘He had a sufficient reason, you may b/e sure. 
Oh, papa, how ready you are to believe evil of 
him : ” 


'252 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ I am not, God knows 1 ” 

“ How you cling to this story of the letter ! Sup- 
pose it turns out to be some old letter, written two 
or three years ago ? You could never look Rich- 
ard in the face again.” 

Unfortunately, Shackford dated it. It is use^ 
less for us to blindfold ourselves, Margaret. Rich- 
ard has managed in some way to get himself into a 
very perilous situation, and we cannot help him by 
shutting our eyes. You misconceive me if you im- 
agine I think him capable of coolly plotting his 
cousin’s death ; but it is not outside the limits of 
the possible that what has happened a thousand 
times may have happened once more. Men less 
impulsive than Richard ” — 

“ I will not listen to it ! ” interrupted Margaret, 
drawing herself up. “ When Richard returns he 
will explain the matter to you, — not to me. If I 
required a word of denial from him, I should care 
very little whether he was innocent or not.” 

Mr. Slocum threw a terrified glance at his daugh^ 
ter. Her lofty faith sent a chill to his heart. What 
would be the result of a fall from such a height ? 
He almost wished Margaret had something less of 
that ancestral confidence and obstinacy the lack of 
which in his own composition he had so often do 
plored. 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


253 


‘‘We are not to speak of this to Richard,” he 
said, after a protracted pause ; “at least not until 
Mr. Taggett consWers it best. I have pledged my- 
self to something like that.” 

“ Has Richard been informed of Mr. Taggett’s 
singular proceeding ? ” asked Margaret, freezingly. 

“ Not yet ; nothing is to be done until Mr. Tag- 
gett returns from New York, and then Richard 
will at once have an opportunity of clearing him- 
self.” 

“ It would have spared us all much pain and 
misunderstanding if he had been sent for in the 
first instance. Did he know that this person was 
here in the yard ? ” 

“ The plan was talked over before Richard left ; 
the details were arranged afterwards. He heartily 
approved of the plan.” 

A leisurely and not altogether saint-like smile 
crept into the corners of Margaret’s mouth. 

“Yes, he approved of the plan,” repeated Mr. 
Slocum. “ Perhaps he ” — Here Mr. Slocum 
checked himself, and left the sentence flying at 
loose ends. Perhaps Richard had looked with favor 
jpon a method of inquiry which was so likely to 
lead to no result. But Mr. Slocum did not venture 
to finish the suggestion. He had never seen Mar- 
garet so imperious and intractable ; it was impos- 


254 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Bible to reason or to talk frankly with her. lie 
remained silent, sitting with one arm thrown de- 
jectedly across the back of the chair. 

Presently his abject attitude and expression be- 
gan to touch Margaret ; there was something that 
appealed to her in the thin gray hair falling over 
his forehead. Her eyes softened as they rested 
upon him, and a pitying little tremor came to her 
under lip. 

“ Papa,” she said, stooping to his side, with a 
sudden rosy bloom in her cheeks, ‘‘I have all the 
proof I want that Richard knew nothing of this 
dreadful business.” 

“You have proof 1 ” exclaimed Mr. Slocum, start- 
ing from his seat. 

“ Yes. The morning Richard went to New 
York ” — Margaret hesitated. 

“Well!” 

“ He put his arm around me and kissed me.” 

“Well!” 

“ Well ? ’’ repeated Margaret. “ Could Richard 
have done that, — could he have so much as laid 
his hand upon me — if — if ” — 

Mr. Slocum sunk back in the chair with a kind 

groan. 

“ Papa, you do not know him ! ” 

Oh, Margaret, I am afraid that that is not the 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 255 

kind of evidence to clear Richard in Mr. Taggett’a 
eyes.’’ 

‘‘ Then Richard’s word must do it,” she said 
haughtily. ‘‘He will be home to-night.” 

“ Yes, he is to return to-night,” said Mr. Slocum, 
aooking away from her. 


XXII. 


During the rest of the day the name of Richard 
Shackford was not mentioned again by either Mar- 
garet or her father. It was a day of suspense to 
both, and long before night-fall Margaret’s impa- 
tience for Richard to come had resolved itself into 
a pain as keen as that with which Mr. Slocum con- 
templated the coming; for every hour augmented 
his dread of the events that would necessarily fol- 
low the reappearance of young Shackford in Still- 
water. 

On reaching his office, after the conversation 
with Margaret, Mr. Slocum found Lawyer Perkins 
waiting for him. Lawyer Perkins, who was as yet 
in ignorance of the late developments, had brought 
information of his own. The mutilated document 
which had so grimly clung to its secret was at last 
deciphered. It proved to be a recently executed 
will, in which the greater part of Lemuel Shack- 
ford’s estate, real and personal, was left uncondi- 
tionally to his cousin. 

“ That disposes of one of Mr. Taggett’s theo 
ries,” was Mr. Slocum’s unspoken reflection. Cer 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


257 


tainly Richard had not destroyed the will ; the old 
man himself had destroyed it, probably in some fit 
of pique. Yet, after all, the vital question was in 
no way affected by this fact: the motive for the 
crime remained, and the fearful evidence against 
Richard still held. 

After the departure of Lawyer Perkins, who had • 
been struck by the singular perturbation of his old 
friend, Mr. Slocum drew forth Mr. Taggett’s jour- 
nal, and re-read it from beginning to end. Mar- 
garet’s unquestioning faith in Richard, her prompt 
and indignant rejection of the whole story, had 
shaken her father at moments that morning; but 
now his paralyzing doubts returned. This second 
perusal of the diary impressed him even more 
strongly than the first. Richard had killed Lemuel 
Shackford, — in self-defense, may be, or perhaps 
accidentally ; but he had killed him I As Mr. Slo- 
cum passed from page to page, following the dark 
thread of narrative that darkened at each remove, 
he lapsed into that illogical frame of mind when 
one looks half expectantly for some providential 
interposition to avert the calamity against which 
human means are impotent. If Richard were to 
drop dead in the street ! If he were to fall over- 
board off Point Judith in the night I If only any- 
thing would happen to prevent his coming back 
17 


258 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Thus the ultimate disgrace might be spared them. 
But the ill thing is the sure thing ; the letter with 
the black seal never miscarries, and Richard was 
bound to come ! There is no escape for him or 
for us,” murmured Mr. Slocum, closing his finger 
in the book. 

It was in a different mood that Margaret said 
to herself, It is nearly four o’clock ; he will be 
here at eight ! ” As she stood at the parlor win- 
dow and watched the waning afternoon light mak- 
ing its farewells to the flower-beds in the little 
square front-gardens of the houses opposite, Mar- 
garet’s heart was filled with the tenderness of the 
greeting she intended to give Richard. She had 
never been cold or shy in her demeanor with him, 
nor had she ever been quite demonstrative ; but 
now she meant to put her arms around his neck in 
a wifely fashion, and recompense him so far as she 
could for all the injustice he was to suffer. When 
he came to learn of the hateful slander that had 
lifted its head during his absence, he should already 
be in possession of the assurance of her faith. 

In the mean while the hands in Slocum’s Yard 
were much exercised over the unaccountable disap- 
pearance of Blake. Stevens reported the matter to 
Mr. Slocum. 

“ Ah, yes,” said Mr. Slocum, who had not pro- 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


259 


rided Limself with an explanation, and was puzzled 
to improvise one. I discharged him, — that is to 
Bay, I let him go. I forgot to mention it. He 
did n’t take to the trade.” 

“ But he showed a good fist for a beginner,” said 
Stevens. “ He was head and shoulders the best of 
the new lot. Shall I put Stebbins in his place ? ” 

“ You need n’t do anything until Mr. Shackford 
gets back.” 

“ When will that be, sir ? ” 

To-night, probably.” 

The unceremonious departure of Blake formed 
the theme of endless speculation at the tavern that 
evening, and for the moment obscured the general 
interest in old Shackford’s murder. 

‘‘ Never to let on he was goin’ I ” said one. 

“ Did n’t say good-by to nobody,” remarked a 
second. 

It was devilish uncivil,” added a third. 

It is kind of mysterious,” said Mr. Peters. 

“ Some girl,” suggested Mr. Willson, with an air 
of tender sentiment, which he attempted further to 
emphasize by a capacious wink. 

‘^No,” observed Dexter. ‘‘When a man van- 
ishes in that sudden way his body is generally found 
in a clump of blackberry bushes, months afterward^ 
Dr left somewhere on the flats by an ebb tide.” 


260 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


‘‘ Two murders in Stillwater in one month would 
be rather crowding it, would n’t it ? ” inquired Pig- 
gott. 

Bosh ! ” said Durgin. ‘‘ There was always 
something shady about Blake. We didn’t know 
where he hailed from, and we don’t know where 
he ’s gone to. He ’ll take care of himself ; that 
kind of fellow never lets anybody play any points 
on him.” With this Durgin threw away the stump 
of his cigar, and lounged out at the street door. 

‘‘ I could n’t get anything out of the proprietor,” 
said Stevens ; “ but he never talks. May be Shack- 
ford when he ” — Stevens stopped short to listen 
to a low, rumbling sound like distant thunder, fol- 
lowed almost instantly by two quick faint whistles. 
“ He ’s aboard the train to-night.” 

Mr. Peters quietly rose from his seat and left the 
bar-room. 

The evening express, due at eight, was only a 
few seconds behind time. As the screech of the 
approaching engine rung out from the dark wood- 
land, Margaret and her father exchanged rapid 
glances. Ifc would take Richard ten minutes to 
walk from the railway station to the house, — for 
of course he would come there directly after send- 
ing his valise to Lime Street. 

The ten minutes went by, and then twenty. Mar 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


261 


garet bent steadily over her work, listening with 
covert intentness for the click of the street gate. 
Likely enough Richard had been unable to find any 
one to take charge of his hand-luggage. Presently 
Mr. Slocum could not resist the impulse to look at 
his watch. It was half past eight. He nervously 
unfolded The Stillwater Gazette, and sat with his 
eyes fastened on the paper. 

After a seemingly interminable period the heavy 
bell of the South Church sounded nine, and then 
tolled for a few minutes, as the dismal custom is in 
New England country towns. 

A long silence followed, unrelieved by any word 
between father and daughter, — a silence so pro- 
found that the heart of the old-fashioned time-piece, 
throbbing monotonously in its dusky case at the 
foot of the stairs, made itself audible through the 
room. Mr. Slocum’s gaze continued fixed on the 
newspaper which he was not reading. Margaret’s 
hands lay crossed over the work on her lap. 

Ten o’clock. 

What can have kept him ? ” murmured Mar- 
garet. 

There was only that way out of it,” reflected 
Mr. Slocum, pursuing his own line of thought. 

Margaret’s cheeks were flushed and hot, and her 
eyes dulled with disappointment, as she rose from 


262 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


the low rocking-chair and crossed over to kiss her 
father good-night. Mr. Slocum drew the girl gently 
towards him, and held her for a moment in silence. 
But Margaret, detecting the subtile commiseration 
in his manner, resented it, and released herself 
coldly. 

“ He has been detained, papa.” 

Yes, something must have detained him I ” 


XXIII. 


When the down express arrived at Stillwater, 
that night, two passengers stepped from the rear 
car to the platform : one was Kichard Shackford, 
and the other a commercial traveler, whose ac- 
quaintance Richard had made the previous even- 
ing on the Fall River boat. 

There were no hacks in waiting at the station, 
and Richard found his politeness put to a severe 
test when he saw himself obliged to pilot his com- 
panion part of the way to the hotel, which lay — it 
seemed almost maliciously — in a section of the 
town remote from the Slocums’. Curbing his im- 
patience, Richard led the stranger through several 
crooked, unlighted streets, and finally left him at 
the corner of the main thoroughfare, within pistol- 
shot of the red glass lantern which hung over the 
door of the tavern. This cost Richard ten good 
minutes. As he hurriedly turned into a cross-street 
on the left, he fancied that he heard his name 
called several times from somewdiere in the dark- 
ness. A man came running towards him. It was 
VI r. Peters. 


264 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Can I say a word to you, Mr. Shackford ? ’’ 

“ If it is n’t a long one. I am rather pressed.” 

“ It is about Torrini, sir.” 

‘‘ What of him?” 

“ He ’s mighty bad, sir.” 

Oh, I can’t stop to hear that,” and Richard 
quickened his pace. 

“ The doctor took off his hand last Wednesdav,’ 
said Peters, keeping alongside, “ and he ’s been 
getting worse and worse.” 

Richard halted. Took off his hand ? ” 

“Didn’t you know he was caught in the roll- 
ing-machine at Dana’s? Well, it was after you 
went away.” 

“ This is the first I ’ve heard of it.” 

“It was hard lines for him, sir, with the woman 
and the two children, and nothing to eat in the 
house. The boys in the yard have done what they 
could, but with the things from the drug-store, and 
so on, we could n’t hold up our end. Mr. Dana 
paid the doctor’s bill, but if it had n’t been for 
Miss Slocum I don’t know what would have hap- 
pened. I thought may be if I spoke to you, and 
told you how it was ” — 

“ Did Torrini send you ?” 

‘ Lord, no ! He ’s too proud to send to anybody, 
He ’s been so proud since they took off his hand 


THE SllLLWATER TRAGEDY. 


265 


fchat there has been no doing anything with him. 
If they was to take off his leg, he would turn into 
one mass of pride. No, Mr. Shackford, I came of 
myself.” 

“ Where does Torrini live, now ? ” 

“In Mitchell’s Alley.” 

“ I will go along with you,” said Richard, with 
a dogged air. It seemed as if the fates were de- 
termined to keep him from seeing Margaret that 
night. Peters reached out a hand to take Richard’s 
leather bag. “ No, thank you, I can carry it very 
well.” In a small morocco case in one of the 
pockets was a heavy plain gold ring for Margaret, 
and not for anything in the world would Richard 
have allowed any one else to carry the bag. 

After a brisk five minutes’ walk the two 
emerged upon a broad street crossing their path at 
right angles. All the shops were closed except 
Stubbs the provision dealer’s and Dundon’s drug- 
store. In the window of the apothecary a great 
purple jar, with a spray of gas jets behind it, was 
flaring on the darkness like a Bengal light. Rich- 
ard stopped at the provision store and made some 
purchases ; a little further on he halted at a fruit 
stand, kept by an old crone, who had supph'mented 
the feeble flicker of the corner street lamp with a 
pitch-pine torch, which cast a yellow bloom over 


266 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


her apples and turned them all into oranges. She 
had real oranges, however, and Richard selected 
half a dozen, with a confused idea of providing the 
little Italians with some national fruit, though both 
children had been born in Stillwater. 

Then the pair resumed their way, Peters acting 
as pioneer. They soon passed beyond the region 
of sidewalks and curbstones, and began picking 
their steps through a narrow, humid lane, where 
the water lay in slimy pools, and the tenement 
houses on each side blotted out the faint starlight. 
The night was sultry, and door and casement stood 
wide, making pits of darkness. Few lights were 
visible, but a continuous hum of voices issued from 
the human hives, and now and then a transient 
red glow at an upper window showed that some one 
was smoking a pipe. This was Mitchell’s Alley. 

The shadows closed behind the two men as they 
moved forward, and neither was aware of the figure 
which had been discreetly following them for the 
last ten minutes. If Richard had suddenly wheeled 
and gone back a dozen paces, he would have come 
face to face with the commercial traveler. 

Mr. Peters paused in front of one of the tene- 
ment houses, and motioned with his thumb over 
his shoulder for Richard to follow him through a 
yawning doorway. The hall was as dark as a cave 


TH5 STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


267 


und full of stale, moldy odors. Peters shujffled cau- 
tiously along the bare boards until he kicked his 
toe against the first step of the staircase. 

“ Keep close to the wall, Mr. Shackford, and 
feel your way up. They ’ve used the banisters for 
kindling, and the landlord says he shan’t put in 
any more. I went over here the other night,” add- 
ed Mr. Peters reminiscentially. 

After fumbling several seconds for the latch, 
Mr. Peters pushed open a door, and ushered Rich- 
ard into a large, gloomy rear room. A kerosene 
lamp was burning dimly on the mantel-shelf, over 
which hung a coarsely-colored lithograph of the 
Virgin in a pine frame. Under the picture stood 
a small black crucifix. There was little furniture, 
— a cooking-stove, two or three stools, a broken 
table, and a chest of drawers. On an iron bed- 
stead in the corner lay Torrini, muffled to the chin 
in a blanket, despite the hot midsummer night. 
His right arm, as if it were wholly disconnected 
vith his body, rested in a splint on the outside of 
vhe covering. As the visitors entered, a tall dusky 
woman with blurred eyes rose from a low bench at 
the foot of the bed. 

Is he awake ? ” asked Peters. 

The woman, comprehending the glance which 
accom])anied the words, though not the words 
themselves, nodded yes. 


268 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ Here is Mr. Shackford come to see you, Tor- 
rini,” Peters said. 

The man slowly unclosed his eyes ; they were 
unnaturally brilliant and dilated, and seemed to ab- 
sorb the rest of his features. 

‘‘ I didn’t want him.” 

Let by-gones be by-gones, Torrini,” said Rich- 
ard, approaching the bedside. “ I am sorry about 
this.” 

“ You are very good ; I don’t understand. I ask 
nothing of Slocum ; but the signorina comes every 
day, and I cannot help it. What would you have ? 
T ’m a dead man,” and he turned away his face. 

“ It is not so bad as that,” said Richard. 

Torrini looked up with a ghastly smile. ‘‘ They 
have cut off the hand that struck you, Mr. Shack- 
ford.” 

“ I suppose it was necessary. I am very sorry. 
In a little while you will be on your feet again.” 

“ It is too late. They might have saved me by 
taking the arm, but I would not allow them. I may 
last three or four days. The doctor says it.” 

Peters, standing in the shadow, jerked his head 
affirmatively. 

“ I do not care for myself,” the man continued, 
— ‘‘ but she and the little ones — That is whai 
maddens me. They will starve.” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 269 

“ They will not be let starve in Stillwater,” said 
Richard. 

Torrini turned his eyes upon him wistfully ana 
doubtfully. “ You will help them ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, I and others.” 

“ If they could be got to Italy,” said Torrini, 
after meditating, ‘‘ it would be well. Her father,” 
giving a side look at the woman, “ is a fisherman 
of Capri.” At the word Capri the woman lifted 
her head quickly. He is not rich, but he ’s not 
poor ; he would take her.” 

You would wish her sent to Naples ? ” 

Yes.” 

‘‘ If you do not pull through, she and the chil- 
dren shall go there.” 

‘‘ Brigida ! ” called Torrini ; then he said some- 
thing rapidly in Italian to the woman, who buried 
her face in both hands, and did not reply. 

She has no words to thank you. See, she is 
tired to death, with the children all day and me all 
.light, — these many nights.” 

Tell her to go to bed in the other room,” said 
Richard. There ’s another room, is n’t there ^ 
I ’ll sit with you.” 

‘‘ You?” 

Your wife is fagged out, — that is plain. Send 
her to bed, and don’t talk any more. Peters, I 


270 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY, 


wish you ’d run and get a piece of ice somewhere , 
there ’s no drinking-water here. Come, now, Tor- 
rini, I can’t speak Italian. Oh, I don’t mind your 
scowling ; I intend to stay.” 

Torrini slowly unknitted his brows, and an ir- 
resolute expression stole across his face ; then he 
called Brigida, and bade her go in with the chil- 
dren. She bowed her head submissively, and fixing 
her melting eyes on Eichard for an instant passed 
into the adjoining chamber. 

Peters shortly reappeared with the ice, and after 
setting a jug of water on the table departed. Rich- 
ard turned up the wick of the kerosene lamp, which 
was sending forth a disagreeable odor, and pinned 
an old newspaper around the chimney to screen the 
fiame. He had, by an odd chance, made his lamp- 
shade out of a copy of The Stillwater Gazette con- 
taining the announcement of his cousin’s death. 
Richard gave a quick start as his eye caught the il- 
luminated head-lines, — Mysterious Murder of Lem- 
lel Shackford ! Perhaps a slight exclamation es- 
caped Richard s lips at the same time, for Torrini 
turned and asked what was the matter. “ Nothing 
at all,” said Richard, removing the paper, and plac- 
ing another in its stead. Then he threw open the 
blinds of the window looking on the back yard, and 
%et his hand-bag against the door to prevent i 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


271 


^eing blown to by the draught. Torrini, without 
altering the rigid position of his head on the pillow, 
followed every movement with a look of curious in- 
Bistence, like that of the eyes in a portrait. His 
preparations completed for the night, Richard seat- 
ed himself on a stool at the foot of the bed. 

The obscurity and stillness of the room had their 
effect upon the sick man, who presently dropped 
into a light sleep. Richard sat thinking of Mar- 
garet, and began to be troubled because he had 
neglected to send her word of his detention, which 
he might have done by Peters. It was now too 
late. The town clock struck ten in the midst of his 
self-reproaches. At the first clang of the bell, Tor- 
rini awoke with a start, and asked for water. 

‘‘ If anybody comes,” he said, glancing in a be- 
wildered, anxious way at the shadows huddled 
about the door, you are not to leave me alone 
with him.” 

Him ? Whom ? Are you expecting any one ? ” 

“ No ; but who knows ? one might come. Then, 
you are not to go ; you are not to leave me a sec- 
ond.” 

‘‘ I ’ve no thought of it,’ replied Richard ; “ yon 

may rest easy He’s a trifle light in the 

head,” was Richard’s reflection. 

Aftei that Torrini dozed rather than slumbered 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


272 

rousing at brief intervals ; and whenever he awoke 
the feverish activity of his brain incited him to 
talk, — now of Italy, and now of matters connect- 
ed with his experiences in this country. 

‘‘ Naples is a pleasant place ! ” he broke out in 
the hush of the midnight, just as Richard was drop 
ping off. ‘‘ The band plays every afternoon on the 
Chiaia. And then the festas^ — every third day a 
festa. The devil was in my body when I left there 
and dragged little Brigida into all this misery. W e 
used to walk of an evening along the Marinella, — 
that ’s a strip of beach just beyond the Molo Pic- 
colo. You were never in Naples ? ” 

“ Not I,” said Richard. ‘‘ Here, wet your lips, 
and try to go to sleep again,” 

No, I can’t sleep for thinking. When the sig- 
iKirina came to see me, the other day, her heart was 
pierced with pity. Like the blessed Madonna’s, her 
bosom bleeds for all ! You will let her come to- 
morrow ? ” 

“Yes, yes ! If you will only keep quiet, Mar- 
garet shall come.” 

“ Margherita, we say. You are to wed her, — ia 
it not so ? ” 

Richard turned down the wick of the lamp, which 
was blazing and spluttering, and did not answer. 
Then Torrini lay silent a long while, apparently list- 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


273 


ening to the hum of the telegraph wires attached 
to one end of the roof. At odd intervals the fresh- 
ening breeze swept these wires, and awoke a lo\i' 
aeolian murmur. The moon rose in the mean time, 
and painted on the uncarpeted floor the shape of 
the cherry bough that stretched across the window. 
It was two o’clock ; Richard sat with his head bent 
forward, in a drowse. 

I 

Now the cousin is dead, you are as rich as a 
prince, — are you not ? ” inquired Torrini, who had 
lain for the last half hour with his eyes wide open 
in the moonlight. 

Richard straightened himself with a jerk. 

‘‘ Torrini, I positively forbid you to talk any 
more ! ” 

“ I remember you said that one day, somewhere. 
Where was it ? Ah, in the yard ! ‘ You can’t be 

allowed to speak here, you know.’ And then I 
tstruck at you, — with that hand they ’ve taken 
away ! See how I remember it ! ” 

“ Why do you bother your mind with such 
things? Think of just nothing at all, and rest. 
Perhaps a wet cloth on your forehead will refresh 
you. I wish you had a little of my genius for not 
keeping awake.” 

You are tired, you ? ” 

“ I have had two broken nights, traveling.” 

18 


274 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


And I give you no peace ? ” 

‘‘Well, no,” returned Eichard bluntly, hoping 
the admission would induce Torrini to tranquillize 
himself, “ you don’t give me much.” 

“ Has any one been here ? ” demanded Torrini 
abruptly. 

“ Not a soul. Good Heaven, man, do you know 
what time it is ? ” 

I 

“ I know, — I know. It ’s very late. I ought 
to keep quiet ; but, the devil ! with this fever in 
my brain ! . . . . Mr. Shackford ! ” and Torrini, in 
spite of his imprisoned limb, suddenly half raised 
himself from the mattress. “I — I ” — 

Richard sprung to his feet. “What is it, — 
what do you want ? ” 

“ Nothing,” said Torrini, falling back on the pil- 
low. 

Richard brought him a glass of water, which he 
refused. He lay motionless, with his eyes shut, as 
if composing himself, and Richard returned on tip- 
toe to his bench. A moment or two afterwards 
Torrini stirred the blanket with his foot. 

“ Mr. Shackford ! ” 

“Well?” 

“ I am as grateful — as a dog.” 

Torrini did not speak again. This expression 04 
his gratitude appeared to ease him. His respira* 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


275 


klon grew lighter and more regular, and by and by 
he fell into a profound sleep. Kichard watched 
awhile expectantly, with his head resting against 
the rail of the bedstead ; then his eyelids drooped, 
and he too slumbered. But once or twice, before 
he quite lost himself, he was conscious of Brigida’s 
thin face thrust like a silver wedge through the 
half-open door of the hall bedroom. It was the 
last thing he remembered, — that sharp, pale face 
peering out from the blackness of the inner cham- 
ber just as his grasp loosened on the world and he 
drifted off on the tide of a dream. A narrow white 
hand, like a child’s, seemed to be laid against his 
breast. It was not Margaret’s hand, and yet it 
was hers. No, it was the plaster model he had 
made that idle summer afternoon, years and years 
before he had ever thought of loving her. Strange 
for it to be there ! Then Richard began wonder- 
ing how the gold ring would look on the slender 
forefinger. He unfastened the leather bag and 
took out the ring. He was vainly trying to pass it 
over the first joint of the dead white finger, when 
the cast slipped from his hold and fell with a crash 
to the floor. Richard gave a shudder, and opened 
his eyes. Brigida was noiselessly approaching Tor- 
rini’s bedside. Torrini still slept. It was broad 
day. Through the uncurtained window Richard 
law the blue sky barred with crimson. 


XXIV. 


‘‘ Richakd did come home last night, after all,** 
Baid Mr. Slocum, with a flustered air, seating him- 
self at the breakfast table. 

Margaret looked up quickly. 

“ I just met Peters on the street, and he told 
me,” added Mr. Slocum. 

“ Richard returned last night, and did not come 
to us!” 

“ It seems that he watched with Torrini, — the 
man is going to die.” 

Oh,” said Margaret, cooling instantly. That 
was like Richard ; he never thinks of himself first. 
I would not have had him do differently. Last 
evening you were filled with I don’t know what 
horrible suspicions, yet see how simply everything 
explains itself.” 

“ If I could speak candidly, Margaret, if I could 
express myself without putting you into a passion, 
I would tell you that Richard’s passing the night 
w^ith that man has given me two or three ugly 
ideas.” 

‘‘ Positively, papa, you are worse than Mr. Tag 

gett.” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


277 


“ I shall not say another word,” replied Mr. Slo- 
cum. Then he unfolded the newspaper lying be- 
side him, and constructed a barrier against further 
colloquy. 

An hour afterwards, when Richard threw open 
the door of his private workshop, Margaret was 
standing in the middle of the room waiting for him. 
She turned with a little cry of pleasure, and al- 
lowed Richard to take her in his arms, and kept to 
the spirit and the letter of the promise she had 
made to herself. If there was an unwonted gravity 
in Margaret’s manner, young Shackford was not 
keen enough to perceive it. All that morning, 
wherever he went, he carried with him a sense of 
Margaret’s face resting for a moment against his 
shoulder, and the happiness of it rendered him 
wholly oblivious to the constrained and chilly de- 
meanor of her father when they met. The inter- 
view was purposely cut short by Mr. Slocum, who 
avoided Richard the rest of the day with a persist- 
ency that must have ended in forcing itself upon 
his notice, had he not been so engrossed by the 
work which had accumulated during his absence. 

Mr. Slocum had let the correspondence go to the 
winds, and a formidable collection of unanswered 
■fitters lay on Shackford’s desk. The forenoon was 
nonsumed in reducing the pile and settling the que» 


278 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


fcions that had risen in the shops, for Mr. Slocum 
had neglected everything. Richard was speedily 
advised of Blake’s dismissal from the yard, but, 
not knowing what explanation had been offered, 
was unable to satisfy Stevens’s curiosity on the sub- 
ject. ‘‘ I must see Slocum about that at once,” 
reflected Richard ; but the opportunity did not oc- 
cur, and he was too much pressed to make a spe- 
cial business of it. 

Mr. Slocum, meanwhile, was in a wretched state 
of suspense and apprehension. Justice Beemis’s 
clerk had served some sort of legal paper — pre- 
sumably a subpoena — on Richard, who had coolly 
read it in the yard under the gaze of all, and given 
no sign of discomposure beyond a momentary lift- 
ing of the eyebrows. Then he had carelessly thrust 
the paper into one of his pockets and continued his 
directions to the men. Clearly he had as yet no 
suspicion of the mine that was ready to be sprung 
under his feet. 

Shortly after this little incident, which Mr. Slo- 
cum had witnessed from the window of the count- 
ing-room, Richard spoke a word or two to Stevens, 
and quitted the yard. Mr. Slocum dropped into 
fche carving department. 

Where is Mr. Shackford, Stevens ? ” 

‘‘ He has gone to Mitchell’s Alley, sir. Said 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 279 

he ’d be away an hour. Am I to say he was 
wanted ? ” 

“ No,” replied Mr. Slocum, hastily ; “ any lime 
will do. You need n’t mention that I inquired for 
him,” and Mr. Slocum returned to the counting- 
room. 

Before the hour expired he again distinguished 
Richard’s voice in the workshops, and the cheery 
tone of it was a positive affront to Mr. Slocum. 
Looking back to the week prior to the. tragedy in 
Welch’s Court, he recollected Richard’s unaccount- 
able dejection ; he had had the air of a person 
meditating some momentous step, — the pallor, the 
set face, and the introspective eye. Then came the 
murder, and Richard’s complete prostration. Mr. 
Slocum in his own excitement had noted it superfi- 
cially at the time, but now he recalled the young 
man’s inordinate sorrow, and it seemed rather like 
remorse. Was his present immobile serenity the 
natural expression of an untroubled conscience, or 
the manner of a man whose heart had suddenly os- 
Bified, and was no longer capable of throbbing with 
its guilt ? Richard Shackford was rapidly becom- 
ing an awful problem to Mr. Slocum. 

Since the death of his cousin, Richard had not 
been so much like his former self. He appeared to 
have taken up his cheerfulness at the point where 


280 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


he had dropped it three weeks before. If there 
were any weight resting on his mind, he bore it 
lightly, with a kind of careless defiance. 

In his visit that forenoon to Mitchell’s Alley 
he had arranged for Mrs. Morganson, his cousin’s 
old housekeeper, to watch with Torrini the ensu^ 
ing night. This left Richard at liberty to spend 
the evening with Margaret, and finish his corre- 
spondence. Directly after tea he repaired to the 
studio, and, lighting the German student-lamp, fell 
to work on the letters. Margaret came in shortly 
with a magazine, and seated herself near the round 
table at which he was writing. She had dreaded 
this evening ; it could scarcely pass without some 
mention of Mr. Taggett, and she had resolved not 
to speak of him. If Richard questioned her it 
would be very distressing. How could she tell 
Richard that Mr. Taggett accused him of the mur- 
der of his cousin, and that her own father half be- 
lieved the accusation ? No, she could never ac- 
knowledge that. 

For nearly an hour the silence of the room was 
interrupted only by the scratching of Richard’s 
pen and the rustling of the magazine as Margaret 
turned the leaf. Now and then he looked up and 
caught her eye, and smiled, and went on with his 
task. It was a veritable return of the old times 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


281 


Margaret became absorbed in the story she was 
reading, and forgot her uneasiness. Her left hand 
rested on the pile of answered letters, to which 
Richard added one at intervals, she mechanically 
lifting her palm and replacing it on the fresh mail" 
uscript. Presently Richard observed this move- 
ment and smiled in secret at the slim white hand 
unconsciously making a paper-weight of itself. lie 
regarded it covertly for a moment, and then his 
disastrous dream occurred to him. There should 
be no mistake this time. He drew the small mo- 
rocco case from his pocket, and leaning across the 
table slipped the ring on Margaret’s finger. 

Margaret gave a bewildered start, and then see- 
ing what Richard had done held out her hand to 
him with a gracious, impetuous little gesture. 

I meant to give it you this morning,” he said, 
pressing his lip to the ring, “ but the daylight did 
not seem fine enough for it.” 

“ I thought you had forgotten,” said Margaret, 
slowly turning the band on her finger. 

“ The first thing I did in New York was to go 
to a jeweler’s for this ring, and since then I have 
guarded it day and night as dragonishly as if it had 
been the Koh-i-noor diamond, or some inestimable 
^era which hundreds of envious persons were lying 
in wait to wrest from me. Walking the streets 


282 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


with this trinket in my possession, I have actually 
had a sense of personal insecurity. I seemed to in- 
vite general assault. That was being very senti- 
mental, was it not ? ’’ 

Yes, perhaps.” 

‘‘That small piece of gold meant so much to me.” 

“ And to me,” said Margaret. “ Have you 
finished your letters ? ” 

“ Not yet. I shall be through in ten minutes, 
and then we ’ll have the evening to ourselves.” 

Richard hurriedly resumed his writing and 
Margaret turned to her novel again ; but the inter- 
est had faded out of it ; the figures had grown 
threadbare and indistinct, like the figures in a piece 
of old tapestry, and after a moment or two the 
magazine glided with an unnoticed flutter into the 
girl’s lap. She sat absently twirling the gold loop 
on her finger. 

Richard added the address to the final envelope, 
dried it with the blotter, and abruptly shut down 
the lid of the inkstand with an air of as great 
satisfaction as if he had been the fisherman in the 
Arabian story corking up the wicked afrite. With 
his finger still pressing the leaden cover, as though 
he were afraid the imp of toil would get out again 
he was suddenly impressed by the fact that he had 
geen very little of Mr. Slocum that day. 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 283 

“ I have hardly spoken to him,” he reflected. 
^ Where is your father, to-night ? ” 

‘‘ He has a headache,” said Margaret. “ He 
went to his room immediately after supper.” 

“ It is nothing serious, of course.” 

‘‘ I fancy not ; papa is easily excited, and he has 
had a great deal to trouble him lately, — the strike, 
and all that.” 

‘‘ I wonder if Taggett has been bothering him.” 

I dare say Mr. Taggett has bothered him.” 

“ You knew of his being in the yard ? ” 

Not while he was here. Papa told me yester- 
day. I think Mr. Taggett was scarcely the pei 
son to render much assistance.” 

Then he has found out nothing whatever ? ” 

‘‘ Nothing important.” 

‘‘ But anything ? Trifles are of importance in a 
matter like this. Your father never wrote me a 
word about Taggett.” 

Mr. Taggett has made a failure of it, Richard.” 

‘‘ If nothing new has transpired, then I do not 
understand the summons I received to-day.” 

“ A summons ! ” 

I Ve the paper somewhere. No, it is in the 
pocket of my other coat. I take it there is to be a 
consultation of some kind at Justice Beemis’s office 
bo-morrow.” 


284 THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 

“ I am very glad,’’ said Margaret, with her face 
brightening. To-morrow would lift the cloud 
which had spread itself over them all, and was 
pressing down so heavily on one unconscious head. 
To-morrow Richard’s innocence should shine forth 
and confound Mr. Taggett. A vague bitterness 
rose in Margaret’s heart as she thought of her fa- 
ther. Let us talk of something else,” she said, 
brusquely breaking her pause; ‘‘let us talk of 
something pleasant.” 

“ Of ourselves, then,” suggested Richard, ban- 
ishing the shadow which had gathered in his eyes 
at his first mention of Mr. Taggett’s name. 

“ Of ourselves,” repeated Margaret gayly. 

“ Then you must give me your hand,” stipulated 
Richard, drawing his chair closer to hers. 

“There! ” said Margaret. 

While this was passing, Mr. Slocum, in the soli- 
tude of his chamber, was vainly attempting to 
solve the question whether he had not disregarded 
all the dictates of duty and common sense in allow- 
ing Margaret to spend the evening alone with 
Richard Shackford. Mr. Slocum saw one thing 
with painful distinctness — that he could not help 
himself. 


XXV. 


The next morning Mr. Slocum did not make his 
appearance in the marble yard. His half-simulated 
indisposition of the previous night had turned into 
a genuine headache, of which he perhaps willingly 
availed himself to remain in his room, for he had 
no desire to see Richard Shackford that day. 

It was an hour before noon. Up to that moment 
Richard had been engaged in reading and replying 
to the letters received by the morning’s mail, a 
duty which usually fell to Mr. Slocum. As Richard 
stepped from the office into the yard a small boy 
thrust a note into his hand, and then stood off a 
short distance tranquilly boring with one toe in the 
loose gravel, and apparently waiting for an answer. 
Shackford hastily ran his eye over the paper,* and 
turning towards the boy said, a little impatiently : 

Tell him I will come at once.” 

There was another person in Stillwater that fore- 
noon whose agitation was scarcely less than Mr. 
Slocum’s, though it greatly differed from it in qual- 
ity. Mr. Slocum was alive to his finger-tips with 
iismay ; Lawyer Perkins was boiling over with in- 


286 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


dignation. It was a complex indigDatioii, in which 
astonishment and incredulity were nicely blended 
with a cordial detestation of Mr. Taggett and vague 
promptings to inflict some physical injury on Jus- 
tice Beemis. That he, Melanchthon Perkins, the 
confldential legal adviser and personal friend of the 
late Lemuel Shackford, should have been kept for 
two weeks in profound ignorance of proceedings so 
nearly touching his lamented client ! The explosion 
of the old lawyer’s wrath was so unexpected that 
Justice Beemis, who had dropped in to make the 
disclosures and talk the matter over informally, 
clutched at his broad-brimmed Panama hat and pre- 
cipitately retreated from the oJBBce. Mr. Perkins 
walked up and down the worn green drugget of his 
private room for half an hour afterwards, collecting 
himself, and then dispatched a hurried note to Rich- 
ard Shackford, requesting an instant interview with 
him at his. Lawyer Perkins’s, chambers. 

When, some ten minutes subsequently, Richard 
entered the low-studded square room, darkened with 
faded moreen curtains and filled with a stale odor 
of law-calf, Mr. Perkins was seated at his desk and 
engaged in transferring certain imposing red-sealed 
documents to a green baize satchel which he held 
between his knees. He had regained his equanim* 
tty ; his features wore their usual expression of ju 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


287 


dicial severity ; nothing denoted his recent discom- 
posure, except perhaps an additional wantonness in 
the stringy black hair falling over the high fore- 
head, — that pallid high forehead which always 
wore the look of being covered with cold perspira- 
tion. 

“ Mr. Shackford,” said Lawyer Perkins, suspend- 
ing his operations a second, as he saluted the young 
man, 1 suppose I have done an irregular thing in 
sending for you, but I did not see any other course 
open to me. I have been your cousin’s attorney for 
over twenty-five years, and I Ve a great regard for 
you personally. That must justify the step I am 
taking.” 

The regard is mutual, I am sure,” returned 
Richard, rather surprised by this friendly overture, 
for his acquaintance with the lawyer had been of 
the slightest, though it had extended over many 
years. “ My cousin had very few old friends, and I 
earnestly desire to have them mine. If I were in 
any trouble, there is no one to whom I would come 
BO unhesitatingly as to you.” 

“ But you are in trouble.” 

Yes, my cousin’s death was very distressing.” 

I do not mean that.” Mr. Perkins paused a 
full moment. ‘‘ The district attorney has suddenly 
taken a deep interest in the case, and there is to be 


288 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


a rigorous overhauling of the facts. I am afraid ii 
is going to be very unpleasant for you, Mr. Shack- 
ford.” 

How could it be otherwise ? ” asked Richard, 
tranquilly. 

Lawyer Perkins fixed his black eyes on him. 

Then you fully understand the situation, and can 
explain everything ? ” 

‘‘ I wish I could. Unfortunately, I can explain 
nothing. I don’t clearly see why I have been sum- 
moned to attend as a witness at the investigation 
to be held to-day in Justice Beemis’s office.” 

‘‘ You are unacquainted with any special reason 
why your testimony is wanted ? ” 

‘‘ I cannot conceive why it should be required. 
I gave my evidence at the time of the inquest, and 
have nothing to add to it. Strictly speaking, I 
have had of late years no relations with my cousin. 
During the last eighteen months we have spoken 
together but once.” 

“ Have you had any conversation on this subject 
with Mr. Slocum since your return from New 
York?” 

“ No, I have had no opportunity. I was busy all 
day yesterday ; he was ill in the evening, and is 
atill confined to his room.” 

Mr. Perkins was manifestly embarrassed. 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 289 

‘‘ That is unfortunate,” he said, laying the bag 
on the desk. “ I wish you had talked with Mr. 
Slocum. Of course you were taken into the se- 
cret of Taggett’s presence in the marble yard?” 

“ Oh, yes ; that was all arranged before I left 
home.” 

You don’t know the results of that manoeu- 
vre ? ” 

There were no results.” 

On the contrary, Taggett claims to have made 
very important discoveries.” 

“ Indeed I Why was I not told ! ” 

“ I can’t quite comprehend Mr. Slocum’s silence.” 

“ What has Taggett discovered ? ” 

‘‘ Several things, upon which he builds the grav- 
est suspicions.” 

‘‘ Against whom ? ” 

Against you.” 

‘‘ Against me ! ” cried Richard, recoiling. The 
action was one altogether of natural amazement, and 
convinced Mr. Perkins, who had keenly watched 
the effect of his announcement, that young Shack- 
ford was being very hardly used. 

Justice Beemis had given Mr. Perkins only a 
brief outline of the facts, and had barely touched 
on details when the old lawyer’s anger had put an 
end to the conversation. His disgust at having been 

19 


290 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


left out in the cold, though he was in no profes 
Bional way concerned in the task of discovering the 
murderer of Lemuel Shackford, had caused Lawyer 
Perkins instantly to repudiate Mr. Taggett’s action. 

Taggett is a low, intriguing fellow,” he had said 
to Justice Beemis ; Taggett is a fraud.” Young 
Shackford’s ingenuous manner now confirmed Mr. 
Perkins in that belief. 

Richard recovered himself in a second or two. 
“ Why did not Mr. Slocum mention these suspi- 
cions to me ? ” he demanded. 

“ Perhaps he found it difficult to do so.” 

Why should he find it difficult ? ” 

Suppose he believed them.” 

“ But he could not believe them, whatever they 
are.” 

Well, then, suppose he was not at liberty to 
speak.” 

‘‘ It seems that you are, Mr. Perkins, and you 
owe it to me to be explicit. What does Taggett sus- 
pect?” 

Lawyer Perkins brooded a while before replying. 
His practice was of a miscellaneous sort, confined 
in the main to what is technically termed office 
practice. Though he was frequently engaged in 
small cases of assault and battery, — he could 
scarcely escape that in Stillwater, — he had never 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


291 


fonducted an important criminal case; but when 
Lawyer Perkins looked up from his brief reverie, 
he had fully resolved to undertake the defense of 
Richard Shackford. 

“ I will tell you what Taggett suspects,” he said 
slowly, “ if you will allow me to tell you in my own 
way. I must ask you a number of questions.” 

Richard gave a half-impatient nod of assent. 

‘‘ Where were you on the night of the murder? ” 
inquired Lawyer Perkins, after a slight pause. 

I spent the evening at the Slocums’, until ten 
o’clock ; then I went home, — but not directly. 
It was moonlight, and I walked about, perhaps for 
an hour.” 

Did you meet any one ? ” 

“Not that I recollect. I walked out of town, on 
the turnpike.” 

“When you returned to your boarding-house, 
did you meet any one ? ” 

“ No, I let myself in with a pass-key. The family 
had retired, with the exception of Mr. Pinkham.” 

“ Then you saw him ? ” 

“No, but I heard him; he was playing on th« 
dute at his chamber window, or near it. He al 
ATiys plays on the flute when he can’t sleep.’ 

“ What o’clock was that ? ' 

“ It must have been after eleven.” 


292 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


‘‘ Your stroll was confined to the end of the town 
most remote from Welch’s Court ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, I just cruised around on the outskirts.” 

‘‘I wish you had spoken with somebody that 
night.” 

“ The streets were deserted. I was n’t likely to 
meet persons on the turnpike.” 

“ However, some one may have seen you without 
your knowing it ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Richard curtly. He was growing 
restive under these interrogations, the drift of which 
was plain enough to be disagreeable. Moreover, 
Mr. Perkins had insensibly assumed the tone and 
air of a counsel cross-examining a witness on the 
other side. This nocturnal cruise, whose direction 
and duration were known only to young Shackford, 
struck Lawyer Perkins unpleasantly. He medi- 
tated a moment before putting the next question. 

Were you on good terms — I mean fairly good 
terms — with your cousin ? ” 

“ No,” said Richard ; “ but the fault was not 
nine. He never liked me. As a child I annoyed 
him, I suppose, and when I grew up I offended 
him by running away to sea. My mortal offense, 
however, was accepting a situation in Slocum’s 
Yard. I have been in my cousin’s house only twice 
in three years.” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


293 


“ When was the last time ? ” 

“ A day or two previous to the strike.’’ 

As you were not in the habit of visiting the 
house, you must have had some purpose in going 
there. What was the occasion ? ” 

Richard hung his head thoughtfully. ‘‘I went 
there to talk over family matters, — to inform him 
of my intended marriage with Margaret Slocum. I 
wanted his good-will and support. Mr. Slocum 
had offered to take me into the business. I thought 
that perhaps my cousin Lemuel, seeing how pros- 
perous I was, would be more friendly to me.” 

“ Did you wish him to lend you capital ? ” 

‘‘ I did n’t expect or wish him to ; but there was 
some question of that.” 

“ And he refused ? ” 

‘‘ Rather brutally, if I may say so now.” 

‘‘Was there a quarrel? ” 

Richard hesitated. 

“ Of course I don’t press you,” said Mr. Perkins, 
with some stiffness. “ You are not on the witness 
stand.” 

“ I began to think I was — in the prisoner’s 
lock,” answered Richard, smiling ruefully. “How- 
ever, I have nothing to conceal. I hesitated to re- 
ply to you because it was painful for me to reflect 
that the last time I saw my cousin we parted in 


294 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


anger. He charged me with attempting to over 
reach him, and I left the house in indignation.” 

“ That was the last time you saw him ? ” 

“ The last time I saw him alive.” 

Was there any communication between you 
two after that ? ” 

‘‘No.” 

“ None whatever ? ” 

“ None.” 

“ Are you quite positive ? ” 

“ As positive as I can be that I live and have my 
senses.” 

Lawyer Perkins pulled a black strand of hair 
over his forehead, and remained silent for nearly a 
minute. 

“ Mr. Shackford, are you sure that your cousin 
did not write a note to you on the Monday preced- 
ing the night of his death ? ” 

“ He may have written a dozen, for all I know. 
I only know that I never received a note or a letter 
from him in the whole course of my life.” 

“ Then how do you account for the letter which 
Las been found in your rooms in Lime Street, — 
a letter addressed to you by Lemuel Shackford, and 
requesting you to call at his house on that fatal 
Tuesday night ? ” 

“I — I know nothing about it,” stammered Rich 
Rid. “ There is no sucli paper ! " 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


295 


“ It was in this office less than one hour ago,” 
said Lawyer Perkins sternly. It was brought here 
for me to identify Lemuel Shackford’s handwriting 
Justice Beemis has that paper ! ” 

Justice Beemis has it ! ” exclaimed Richard. 

‘‘ I have nothing more to say,” observed Lawyer 
Perkins, reaching out his hand towards the green 
bag, as a sign that the interview was ended. 
‘‘ There were other points I wished to have some 
light thrown on ; but I have gone far enough to see 
that it is useless.” 

‘‘ What more is there ? ” demanded Richard in a 
voice that seemed to come through a fog. I in- 
sist on knowing! You suspect me of my cousin’s 
murder ? ” 

Mr. Taggett does.” 

“ And you ? ” 

I am speaking of Mr. Taggett.” 

Well, go on, speak of him,” said Richard des- 
perately. ‘‘ What else has he discovered ? ” 

Mr. Perkins wheeled his chair round until he 
faced the young man. 

‘‘He has discovered in your workshop a chisel 
with a peculiar break in the edge, — a deep notch 
in the middle of the bevel. With that chisel Lem- 
ael Shackford was killed.” 

Richard gave a perceptible start, and put hia 


296 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


hand to his head, as if a sudden confused memory 
had set the temples throbbing. 

“ A full box of safety matches,” continued Mr, 
Perkins, in a cold, measured voice, as though he 
were demonstrating a mathematical problem, con- 
tains one hundred matches. Mr. Taggett has dis- 
covered a box that contains only ninety-nine. The 
missing match was used that night in Welch’s 
Court.” 

Richard stared at him blankly. What can I 
say ? ” he gasped. 

« “Say nothing to me,” returned Lawyer Perkins, 
hastily thrusting a handful of loose papers into the 
open throat of the green bag, which he garroted an 
instant afterwards with a thick black cord. Then 
he rose hurriedly from the chair. I shall have to 
leave you,” he said ; “ I ’ve an appointment at the 
surrogate’s.” 

And Lawyer Perkins passed stiffly from the 
apartment. 

Richard lingered a moment alone in the room 
with his chin resting on his breast. 


AJS.V1. 


There was a fire in Richard’s temples as he 
reeled out of Lawyer Perkins’s office. It was now 
twelve o’clock, and the streets were thronged with 
the motley population disgorged by the various 
mills and workshops. Richard felt that every eye 
was upon him ; he was conscious of something wild 
in his aspect that must needs attract the attention 
of the passers-by. At each step he half expected 
the leveling of some accusing finger. The pitiless 
sunshine seemed to single him out and stream upon 
him like a calcium light. It was intolerable. He 
must get away from this jostling crowd, this babel 
of voices. What should he do, where should he 
go ? To return to the yard and face the workmen 
was not to be thought of ; if he went to his lodg- 
'ngs he would be called to dinner, and have to 
listen to the inane prattle of the school-master. 
That would be even more intolerable than this gar- 
ish daylight, and these careless squads of men and 
women who paused in the midst of their laugh to 
turn and stare. Was there no spot in Stillwater 
where a broken man could hide himself long enough 
to collect his senses ? 


298 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


With his hands thrust convulsively into the pock- 
ets of his sack-coat, Richard turned down a narrow 
passage-way fringing the rear of some warehouses. 
As he hurried along aimlessly his fingers encount- 
ered something in one of his pockets. It was the 
key of a new lock which had been put on the scul- 
lery door of the house in Welch’s Court. Richard’s 
heart gave a quick throb. There at least was a 
temporary refuge; he would go there and wait until 
it was time for him to surrender himself to the offi- 
cers. 

It appeared to Richard that he was nearly a year 
reaching the little back yard of the lonely house. 
He slipped into the scullery and locked the door, 
wondering if his movements had been observed 
since he quitted the main street. Here he drew a 
long breath and looked around him ; then he began 
wandering restlessly through the rooms, of which 
there were five or six on the ground-floor. The 
furniture, the carpets, and all the sordid fixtures of 
the house were just as Richard had known them in 
his childhood. Everything was unchanged, even 
to the faded peacock-feather stuck over the parlor 
looking-glass. As he regarded the familiar objects 
and breathed the snuffy atmosphere peculiar to the 
place, the past rose so vividly before him that he 
would scarcely have been startled if a lean, graj 


I 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


299 


old man had suddenly appeared in one of the door- 
ways. On a peg in the front hall hung his cousin’s 
napless beaver hat, satirically ready to be put on ; 
in the kitchen closet a pair of ancient shoes, worn 
down at the heel and with taps on the toe, had all 
the air of intending to step forth. The shoes had 
been carefully blacked, but a thin skin of mould 
had gathered over them. They looked like Lemuel 
Shackford. They had taken a position habitual 
with him. Richard was struck by the subtile irony 
which lay in these inanimate things. That a man’s 
hat should outlast the man, and have a jaunty ex- 
pression of triumph I That a dead man’s shoes 
should mimic him ! 

The tall eight-day clock on the landing had run 
down. It had stopped at twelve, and it now stood 
with solemnly uplifted finger, as if imposing si- 
lence on those small, unconsidered noises which 
commonly creep out, like mice, only at midnight. 
The house was full of such stealthy sounds. The 
stairs creaked at intervals, mysteriously, as if un- 
der the weight of some heavy person ascending. 
Now and then the woodwork stretched itself with a 
snap, as though it had grown stiff in the joints with 
remaining so long in one position. At times there 
were muffled reverberations of footfalls on the fioor- 
Ing overhead. Richard had a curious consciousness 


300 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


of not being alone, but of moving in the midst of an 
invisible throng of persons who elbowed him softly 
and breathed in his face, and vaguely impressed 
themselves upon him as being former occupants of 
the premises. This populous solitude, this silence 
with its busy interruptions, grew insupportable as 
he passed from room to room. 

One chamber he did not enter, — the chamber 
in which his cousin’s body was found that Wednes- 
day morning. In Richard’s imagination it was 
still lying there, white and piteous, by the hearth. 
He paused at the threshold and glanced in ; then 
turned abruptly and mounted the staircase. 

On gaining his old apartment in the gable, Rich- 
ard seated himself on the edge of the cot-bed. His 
shoulders sagged down and a stupefied expression 
settled upon his face, but his brain was in a tumult. 
His own identity was become a matter of doubt 
to him. Was he the same Richard Shackford 
who had found life so sweet when he awoke that 
morning ? It must have been some other person 
who had sat by a window in the sunrise thinking 
of Margaret Slocum’s love, — some Richard Shack- 
ford with unstained hands ! This one was accused 
of murdering his kinsman ; the weapon with which 
he had done it, the very match he had used to lighj 
aim in the deed, were known ! The victim him 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 301 

self had written out the accusation in black and 
white. Richard’s brain reeled as he tried to fix 
his thought on Lemuel Shackford’s letter. That 
letter ! — where had it been all this while, and how 
did it come into Taggett’s possession ? Only one 
thing was clear to Richard in his inextricable con- 
fusion, — he was not going to be able to prove his 
innocence ; he was a doomed man, and within the 
hour his shame would be published to the world. 
Rowland Slocum and Lawyer Perkins had already 
condemned him, and Margaret would condemn him 
when she knew all ; for it was evident that up to 
last evening she had not been told. How did it 
happen that these overwhelming proofs had rolled 
themselves up against him ? What malign influ- 
ences were these at work, hurrying him on to de- 
Btruction, and not leaving a single loophole of es- 
cape? Who would believe the story of his inno- 
cent ramble on the turnpike that Tuesday night ? 
Who could doubt that he had gone directly from 
the Slocums’ to Welch’s Court, and then crept 
home red-handed through the deserted streets ? 

Richard heard the steam-whistles recalling the 
operatives to work, and dimly understood it was one 
o’clock ; but after that he paid no attention to the 
lapse of time. It was an hour later, perhaps two 
hours, — Richard could not tell, — when he roused 


802 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


himself from his stupor, and descending the staiia 
passed through the kitchen into the scullery. 
There he halted and leaned against the sink, irres- 
olute, as though his purpose, if he had had a pur- 
pose, were escaping him. He stood with his eyes 
resting listlessly on a barrel in the further corner 
of the apartment. It was a heavy-hooped wine- 
cask, in which Lemuel Shackford had been wont to 
keep his winter’s supply of salted pieat. Suddenly 
Richard started forward with an inarticulate cry, 
and at the same instant there came a loud knock- 
ing at the door behind him. The sound reverber- 
ated through the empty house, filling the place 
with awful echoes, — like those knocks at the gate 
of Macbeth’s castle the night of Duncan’s mur- 
der. Richard stood petrified for a second ; then he 
hastily turned the key in the lock, and Mr. Taggett 
stepped into the scullery. 

The two men exchanged swift glances. The be- 
wildered air of a moment before had passed from 
Richard ; the dullness had faded out of his eyes, 
leaving them the clear, alert expression they ordi- 
narily wore. He was self-possessed, but the effort 
his self-possession cost him was obvious. There 
was a something in his face — a dilation of the 
nostril, a curve of the under lip — which put Mr. 
Taggett very much on his guard. Mr. Taggett 
vas the first to speak. 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


303 


“ I ’ve a disagreeable mission here,’’ he said 
slowly, with his hand remaining on the latch of 
the door, which he had closed on entering. I 
have a warrant for your arrest, Mr. Shackford.” 

‘‘ Stop a moment ! ” said Richard, \\ith a glow 
in his eyes. “ I have something to say.” 

“I advise you not to make any statement.” 

‘‘ I understand my position perfectly, Mr. Tag- 
gett, and I shall disregard the advice. After you 
have answered me one or two questions, I shall be 
quite at your service.” 

If you insist, then.” 

‘‘ You were present at the examination of Thomas 
Blufton and William Durgin, were you not ? ” 

‘‘ I was.” 

“You recollect William Durgin’s testimony?” 

“ Most distinctly.” 

“ He stated that the stains on his clothes were 
from a certain barrel, the head of which had been 
freshly painted red.” 

“ I remember.” 

“ Mr. Taggett, <:hi head of that barrel was j)ainted 


XXVII. 


Mr. Taggett, in spite of the excellent subjeo 
tion under which he held his nerves, caught hia 
breath at these words, and a transient pallor over- 
spread his face as he followed the pointing of Rich- 
ard’s finger. If William Durgin had testified falsely 
on that point, if he had swerved a hair’s-breadth 
from the truth in that matter, then there was but 
one conclusion to be drawn from his perjury. A 
flash of lightning is not swifter than was Mr. Tag- 
gett’s thought in grasping the situation. In an 
instant he saw all his carefully articulated case fall 
to pieces on his hands. Richard crossed the nar- 
row room, and stood in front of him. 

“ Mr. Taggett, do you know why William Dur- 
gin lied ? He lied because it was life or death with 
him I In a moment of confusion he had committed 
ne of those simple, fatal blunders which men in 
his circumstances always commit. He* had obliter 
ated the spots on his clothes with red paint, whec 
he ought to have used blue ! ” 

‘‘ That is a very grave supposition.” 

‘‘ It is not a supposition,” cried Richard. The 
daylight is not a plainer fact.” 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


305 


“ You are assuming too much, Mr. Shackford.” 

“ I am assuming nothing. Durgin has convicted 
himself ; he has fallen into a trap of his own devis- 
ing. I charge him with the murder of Lemuel 
Shackford ; I charge him with taking the chisel and 
the matches from my workshop, to which he had 
free access ; and I charge him with replacing those 
articles in order to divert suspicion upon me. My 
unfortunate relations with my cousin gave color to 
this suspicion. The plan was an adroit plan, and 
has succeeded, it seems.” 

Mr. Taggett did not reply at once, and then very 
coldly : You will pardon me for suggesting it, but 
it will be necessary to ascertain if this is the cask 
which Durgin hooped, and also if the head has not 
been repainted since.” 

I understand what your doubt implies. It is 
your duty to assure yourself of these facts, and 
nothing can be easier. The person who packed the 
meat — it was probably a provision dealer named 
Stubbs — will of course be able to recognize his 
own work. The other question you can settle with 
a scratch of your penknife. You see. There has 
been only one thin coat of paint laid on, — the 
grain of the wood is nearly distinguishable through 
rt. The head is evidently new ; but the cask itself 
is an old one. It has stood here these ten years.” 

20 


806 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Mr. Taggett bent a penetrating look on Richard 
w Why did you refuse to answer the subpoena, Mr 
Shackford ? ” 

‘‘ But I haven’t refused. I was on my way to 
Justice Beemis’s when you knocked. Perhaps 1 
am a trifle late,” added Richard, catching Mr. Tag- 
gett’s distrustful glance. 

“ The summons said two o’clock,” remarked Mr. 
Taggett, pressing the spring of his watch. It is 
now after three.” 

“ After three I ” 

‘‘ How could you neglect it, — with evidence of 
such presumable importance in your hands ? ” 

“It was only a moment ago that I discovered 
this. I had come here from Mr. Perkins’s office. 
Mr. Perkins had informed me of the horrible 
charge which was to be laid at my door. The in- 
telligence fell upon me like a thunder-clap. I think 
it unsettled my reason for a while. I was unable to 
put two ideas together. At flrst he did n’t believe 
I had killed my cousin, and presently he seemed to 
believe it. When I got out in the street the side- 
walk lurched under my feet like the deck of a ship ; 
gvei’ything swam before me. I don’t know how I 
managed to reach this house, and I don’t knowhow 
long I had been sitting in a room up-stairs when the 
•ecollection of tho subpoena occurred to me. I wai 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


307 


Btanding here dazed with despair ; I saw that I was 
Bomehow caught in the toils, and that it was going 
to be impossible to prove my innocence. If an- 
other man had been in my position, I should have 
believed him guilty. I stood looking at the cask in 
the corner there, scarcely conscious of it ; then 1 
noticed the blue paint on the head, and then Will- 
iam Durgin’s testimony flashed across my mind. 
Where is he ? ’’ cried Richard, turning swiftly. 
‘‘ That man should be arrested ! ” 

“ I am afraid he is gone,” said Mr. Taggett, bit- 
ing his lip. 

“ Do you mean he has fled ? ” 

If you are correct — he has fled. He failed to 
answer the summons to-day, and the constable sent 
to look him up has been unable to find him, Dur- 
gin was in the bar-room of the tavern at eight 
o’clock last night ; he has not been seen since.” 

‘‘ He was not in the yard this morning. You 
have let him slip through your fingers I ” 

“ So it appears, for the moment.” 

“ You still doubt me, Mr. Taggett ? ” 

“ I don’t let persons slip through my fingers.” 
Richard curbed an impatient rejoinder, and said 
quietly, William Durgin had an accomplice.” 

Mr. Taggett flushed, as if Richard had read his 
lecret thought. Durgin’s flight, if he really had 


508 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


fled, had suggested a fresh possibility to Mr. Tag 
gett. What if Durgin were merely the pliant in- 
strument of the cleverer man who was now using 
him as a shield ? This reflection was precisely in 
Mr. Taggett’s line. In absconding Durgin had not 
only secured his own personal safety, but had exon- 
erated his accomplice. It was a desperate step to 
take, but it was a skillful one. 

“He had an accomplice?” repeated Mr. Tag- 
gett, after a moment. “ Who was it ? ” 

“ Torrini ! ” 

“ The man who was hurt the other day ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You have grounds for your assertion ? ” 

“ He and Durgin were intimate, and have been 
much together lately. I sat up with Torrini the 
night before last ; he acted and talked very 
strangely ; the man was out of his head part of the 
time, but now, as I think it over, I am convinced 
that he had this matter on his mind, and was hint- 
ing at it. I believe he would have made disclos- 
ures if I had urged him a little. He was evidently 
in great dread of a visit from some person, and that 
person was Durgin. Torrini ought to be questioned 
without delay ; he is very low, and may die at any 
moment. He is lying in a house at the further end 
of the town. If it is not imperative that I shduL 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 309 

report myself to Justice Beemis, we had better go 
there at once.’’ 

Mr. Taggett, who had been standing with hia 
head half bowed, lifted it quickly as he asked the 
question, Why did you withhold Lemuel Shack- 
ford’s letter ? ” 

‘‘ It was never in my possession, Mr. Taggett,” 
said Richard, starting. ‘‘ That paper is something 
I cannot explain at present. I can hardly believe 
in its existence, though Mr. Perkins declares that 
he has had it in his hands, and it would be impos- 
sible for him to make a mistake in my cousin’s 
writing.” 

“ The letter was found in your lodgings.” 

“ So I was told. I don’t understand it.” 

That explanation will not satisfy the prosecut- 
ing attorney.” 

‘‘I have only one theory about it,” said Richard 
slowly. 

‘‘ What is that ? ” 

“ I prefer not to state it now. I wish to stop at 
my boarding-house on the way to Torrini’s ; it will 
not be out of our course.” 

]Mr. Taggett gave silent acquiescence to this. 
R^.hard opened the scullery door, and the two 
passed into the court. Neither spoke until they 
reached Lime Street. Mrs. Spooner herself an- 


310 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


Bwered Richard’s ring, for he had purposely dis- 
pensed with the use of his pass-key. 

‘‘ I wanted to see you a moment, Mrs. Spooner, 
said Richard, making no motion to enter the hall. 

Thanks, we will not come in. I merely desire to 
ask you a question. Were you at home all day on 
that Monday immediately preceding my cousin’s 
death ? ” 

‘‘No,” replied Mrs. Spooner wonderingly, with 
her hand still resting on the knob. “ I was n’t at 
home at all. I spent the day and part of the night 
with my daughter Maria Ann at South Millville. 
It was a boy,” added Mrs. Spooner, quite irrele- 
vantly, smoothing her ample apron with the disen- 
gaged hand. 

“ Then Janet was at home,” said Richard. “ Call 
Janet.” 

A trim, intelligent-looking Nova Scotia girl was 
summoned from the basement kitchen. 

“ Janet,” said Richard, “ do you remember the 
day, about three weeks ago, that Mrs. Spooner was 
absent at South Millville ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied the girl, without hesitation. “ It 
was the day before ” — and then she stopped. 

“ Exactly ; it was the day before my cousin was 
killed. Now I want you to recollect whether any 
letter or note or written message of any description 
was left for me at this house on that day.*’ 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 311 

Janet reflected. ‘‘ I think there was, Mr. Rich- 
jird, — a bit of paper like.” 

Mr. Taggett riveted his eyes on the girl. 

“ Who brought that paper ? ” demanded Rich- 
•ird. 

‘‘ It was one of the Murphy boys, I think.” 

^ ‘‘ Did you hand it to me ? ” 

No, Mr. Richard, you had gone out. It waa ♦ 
just after breakfast.” 

“ You gave it to me when I came home to din- 
ner, then?” 

“ No,” returned Janet, becoming confused with a 
dim perception that something ha.d gone wrong and 
she was committing herself. 

‘‘ I remember, I did n’t come home. I dined at 
the Slocums’. What did you do with that paper ? ” 

“ I put it on the table in your room up-stairs.” 

Mr. Taggett’s eyes gleamed a little at this. 

‘‘ And that is all you can say about it ? ” in- 
quired Richard, with a fallen countenance. 

Janet reflected. She reflected a long while this 
time. No, Mr. Richard : an hour or so after- 
wards, when I went up to do the chamber- work, I 
fiaw that the wind had blown the paper off of the 
table. I picked up tlie note and put it back ; but 
the wind blew it oft again.” 

What then ? ” 


512 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“Then I shut up the note in one of the big 
books, meaning to tell you of it, and — and I for- 
got it I Oh, Mr. Eichard, have I done something 
dreadful ? ” 

“ Dreadful I ” cried Richard. “Janet, I could hug 
you ! ” 

“ Oh, Mr. Richard,” said Janet with a little co- 
quettish movement natural to every feminine thing, 
bird, flower, or human being, “ you Ve always such 
a pleasant way with you.” 

Then there was a moment of dead silence. Mrs. 
Spooner saw that the matter, whatever it was, was 
settled. 

“ You need n’t wait, Janet I ” she said, with a se- 
vere, mystified air. 

“We are greatly obliged to you, Mrs. Spooner, 
not to mention Janet,” said Richard ; “ and if Mr. 
Taggett has no questions to ask we will not detain 
you.” 

Mrs. Spooner turned her small amiable orbs on 
Richard’s companion. That silent little man Mr. 
Taggett! “He doesn’t look like much,” was the 
landlady’s unuttered reflection ; and indeed he did 
not present a spirited appearance. Nevertheless 
Mrs. Spooner followed him down the street with 
her curious gaze until he and Richard passed out o! 

Bight. 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


31b 


Neither Richard nor Mr. Taggett was disposed 
to converse as they wended their way to Mitchell’a 
Alley. Richard’s ire was slowly kindling at the 
Bhamefiil light in which he had been placed by Mr 
Taggett, and Mr. Taggett was striving with only 
partial success to reconcile himself to the idea oi 
young Shackford’s innocence. Young Shackford’s 
innocence was a very awkward thing for Mr. Tag- 
gett, for he had irretrievably committed himself at 
head-quarters. With Richard’s latent ire was min- 
gled a feeling of profound gratitude. 

“ The Lord was on my side,” he said presently. 

“ He was on your side, as you remark ; and when 
the Lord is on a man’s side a detective necessarily 
comes out second best.” 

“Really, Mr. Taggett,” said Richard, smiling, 
“ that is a handsome admission on your part.” 

“ I mean, sir,” replied the latter, slightly nettled, 
“ that it sometimes seems as if the Lord himself 
took charge of a case.” 

“ Certainly you are entitled to the credit of go- 
ing to the bottom of this one.” 

“ I have skillfully and laboriously damaged my 
reputation, Mr. Shackford.” 

Mr. Taggett said this with so heavy an air that 
Richard felt a stir of sympathy in his bosom. 

“ I am very sorry,” he said good-naturedly. 


314 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


“ No, I beg of you ! ” exclaimed Mr. Taggett 
Any expression of friendliness from you would 
finish me ! For nearly ten days I have looked upon 
you as a most cruel and consummate villain.” 

‘‘I know,” said Richard. “I must be quite a 
disappointment to you, in a small way.” 

Mr. Taggett laughed in spite of himself. I 
hope I don’t take a morbid view of it,” he said. A 
few steps further on he relaxed his gait. “We 
have taken the Hennessey girl into custody. Do 
you imagine she was concerned ? ” 

“ Have you questioned her ? ” 

“ Yes ; she denies everything, except that she 
told Durgin you had quarreled with the old gentle- 
man.” 

“ I think Mary Hennessey an honest girl. She ’s 
little more than a child. I doubt if she knew any- 
thing whatever. Durgin was much too shrewd to 
trust her, I fancy.” 

As the speakers struck into the principal street, 
through the lower and busier end of which they 
were obliged to pass, Mr. Taggett caused a sensa- 
tion. The drivers of carts and the pedestrians on 
both sidewalks stopped and looked at him. The 
part lie had played in Slocum’s Yard was now an 
open secret, and had produced an excitement thal 
was not confined to the clientele of Snelling’s bar 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


315 


room. It was known that William Durgin had dis* 
appeared, and that the constables were searching 
for him. The air was thick with flying conjectures, 
but none of them precisely hit the mark. One 
rumor there was which seemed almost like a piece 
of poetical justice, — a whisper to the effect that 
Howland Slocum was suspected of being in some 
way mixed up with the murder. The fact that 
Lawyer Perkins, with his green bag streaming in 
the wind, so to speak, had been seen darting into 
Mr. Slocum’s private residence at two o’clock that 
afternoon was sufficient to give birth to the horri- 
ble legend. 

Mitchell’s Alley,” said Mr. Taggett, thrusting 
his arm through Richard’s, and hurrying on to 
escape the Stillwater gaze. ‘‘ You went there di- 
rectly from the station the night you got home.” 

How did you know that ? ” 

‘‘ I was told by a fellow- traveler of yours, - and 
a friend of mine.” 

By Jove ! Did it ever strike you, Mr. Taggett, 
that there is such a thing as being too clever? ” 

“ It has occurred to me recently.” 

“ Here is the house.” 

Two sallow-skinned children, with wide, wistful 
brack eyes, who were sitting on the stone step, 
shyl^ crowded themselves together against the door 




316 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


jamb to make passage-way for Richard and Ml 
Taggett. Then the two pairs of eyes veered round 
inquiringly, and followed the strangers up the 
broken staircase and saw one of them knock at the 
door which faced the landing. 

Richard’s hasty tap bringing no response, he lifted 
the latch without further ceremony and stepped into 
the chamber, Mr. Taggett a pace or two behind 
him. The figure of Father O’Meara slowly rising 
from a kneeling posture at the bedside was the 
first object that met their eyes ; the second was 
Torrini’s placid face, turned a little on the pillow ; 
the third was Brigida sitting at the foot of the 
bed, motionless, with her arms wrapped in her 
apron. 

‘‘ He is dead,” said the priest softly, advancing a 
step towards Richard. You are too late. He 
wanted to see you, Mr. Shackford, but you were 
1 ot to be found.” 

Richard sent a swift glance over the priest’s 
shoulder. ‘‘ He wanted to tell me what part he 
had played in my cousin’s murder ? ’ ’ said Richard, 

“ God forbid ! the wretched man had many a sin 
on his soul, but not that.” 

“ Not that I ” 

“ No ; he had no hand it, — no more than you 
or I. His fault was that he concealed his know! 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


317 


edge of the deed after it was done. He did not 
even suspect who committed the crime until two 
days afterwards, when William Durgin ” — 

Richard’s eyes lighted up as they encountered 
Mr. Taggett’s. The priest mistook the significance 
of the glances. 

‘‘ No,” said Father O’Meara, indicating Brigida 
with a quick motion of his hand, the poor soul 
does not understand a word. But even if she did, 
I should have to speak of these matters here and 
now, while they are fresh in my mind. I am 
obeying the solemn injunctions of the dead. Two 
days after the murder William Durgin came to 
Torrini and confessed the deed, offering to share 
with him a large sum in gold and notes if he would 
hide the money temporarily. Torrini agreed to do 
so. Later Durgin confided to him his plan of turn- 
ing suspicion upon you, Mr. Shackford ; indeed, of 
directly charging you with the murder, if the worst 
came to the worst. Torrini agreed to that also, be- 
ijause of some real or fancied injury at your hands. 
It seems that the implement which Durgin had 
employed in forcing the scullery door — the imple- 
ment which he afterwards used so mercilessly — 
had been stolen from your workshop. The next 
morning Durgin put the tool ba( k in its place, not 
knowing what other disposition to make of it, and 


318 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


it was then that the idea of shouldering the crime 
upon you entered his wicked heart. According to 
Torrini, Durgin did not intend to harm the old 
gentleman, but simply to rob him. The unfortu- 
nate man was awakened by the noise Durgin made 
in breaking open the safe, and rushed in to his 
doom. Having then no fear of interruption, Dur- 
gin leisurely ransacked the house. How he came 
across the will, and destroyed it with the idea that 
he was putting the estate out of your possession — 
this and other details I shall give you by and by.” 

Father O’Meara paused a moment. “ After the 
accident at the mill and the conviction that he 
was not to recover, Torrini’s conscience began to 
prick him. When he reflected on Miss Slocum’s 
kindness to his family during the strike, when he 
now saw her saving his wife and children from ab- 
solute starvation, he was nearly ready to break the 
oath with which he had bound himself to William 
Durgin. Curiously enough, this man, so reckless 
in many things, held his pledged word sacred. 
Meanwhile his wavering condition became appar- 
ent to Durgin, who grew alarmed, and demanded 
the stolen property. Torrini refused to give it up , 
8ven his own bitter necessities had not tempted 
him to touch a penny of it. For the last three 
days he was in deadly terror lest Durgin shoulc 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


819 


wrest the money from him by force. The poor 
woman, here, knew nothing of all this. It was her 
presence, however, which probably prevented Dur- 
gin from proceeding to extremities with Torrini, 
who took care never to be left alone.” 

‘‘ I recollect,” said Richard, ‘‘ the night I watched 
with him he was constantly expecting some one. I 
supposed him wandering in his mind.” 

‘‘ He was expecting Durgin, though Torrini had 
every reason for believing that he had fled.” 

Mr. Taggett leaned forward, and asked, “ When 
did he go, — and where ? ” 

‘‘He was too cunning to confide his plans to 
Torrini. Three nights ago Durgin came here and 
begged for a portion of the bank-notes; previously 
he had reclaimed the whole sum ; he said the place 
was growing too warm for him, and that he had 
made up his mind to leave. But Torrini held on 
to the money, having resolved that it should be re- 
stored intact to you. He promised Durgin, how- 
ever, to keep his flight secret for three or four days, 
at the end of which time Torrini meant to reveal 
all to me at confession. The night you sat with 
him, Mr. Shackford, he was near breaking his prom- 
ise ; your kindness was coals of fire on his head. 
His agony, lest he should die or lose his senses 
before he could make known the full depth of Dur- 


320 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


gin’s villainy, must have been something terrible. 
This is the substance of what the poor creature 
begged me to say to you with his dying regrets. 
The money is hidden somewhere under the mat- 
tress, I believe. A better man than Torrini would 
have spent some of it,” added Father O’Meara, 
waving a sort of benediction in the direction of 
the bed. 

Richard did not speak for a moment or two. 
The wretchedness and grimness of it all smote him 
to the heart. When he looked up Mr. Taggett was 
gone, and the priest was gently drawing the cover- 
let over Torrini’s face. 

Richard approached Father O’Meara and said: 

When the money is found, please take charge 
of it, and see that every decent arrangement is 
made. I mean, spare nothing. I am a Protestant, 
but I believe in any man’s prayers when they are 
not addressed to a heathen image. I promised Tor- 
rini to send his wife and children to Italy. This 
pitiful, miserable gold, which cost so dear and is 
vorth so little, shall be made to do that much good, 
at least.” 

As Richard was speaking, a light footfall sounded 
on the staircase outside ; then the door, which stood 
ajar, was softly pushed open, and Margaret paused 
on the threshold. At the rustle of her dress Rich 
ard turned, and hastened towards her. 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


321 


It is all over,” he said softly, laying his finger 
on his lip. Father O’Meara was again kneeling by 
the bedside. 

“ Let us go now,” whispered Richard to Mar- 
garet. It seemed fit that they should leave the 
living and the dead to the murmured prayers and 
solemn ministration of the kindly priest. Such 
later services as Margaret could render to the be- 
reaved woman were not to be wanting. 

At the foot of the stairs Richard Shackford 
halted abruptly, and, oblivious of the two children 
who were softly chattering together in the door- 
way, caught Margaret’s hand in his. 

‘‘ Margaret, Torrini has made a confession that 
Bets at rest all question of my cousin’s death.” 

‘^Do you mean that he” — Margaret faltered, 
and left the sentence unfinished. 

“ No; it was William Durgin, God forgive him! ” 

‘‘ William Durgin ! ” The young girl’s fingers 
closed nervously on Richard’s as she echoed the 
name, and she began trembling. “ That — that is 
stranger yet I ” 

‘‘ I will tell you everything when we get home ; 
this is no time or place ; but one thing I must ask 
you now and here. When you sat with me last 
^-night were you aware that Mr. Taggett firmly be- 
lieved it was I who had killed Lemuel Shackford? ’ 


822 


THE STILLWATER IRAGEDY. 


‘‘ Yes,” said Margaret. 

‘‘That is all I care to know!” cried Richard; 
“that consoles me!” and the two pairs of great 
inquisitive eyes looking up from the stone step 
saw the signorina standing quite mute and color- 
less with the strange gentleman’s arms around 
her. And the signorina was smiling I 


XXVIII. 


One June morning, precisely a year from that 
morning when the reader first saw the daylight 
breaking upon Stillwater, several workmen with 
ladders and hammers were putting up a freshly 
painted sign over the gate of the marble yard. Mr. 
Slocum and Richard stood on the opposite curb- 
stone, to which they had retired in order to take in 
the general effect. The new sign read, — Slocum 
& Shackford. Richard had protested against the 
displacement of its weather-stained predecessor ; it 
seemed to him an act little short of vandalism ; but 
Mr. Slocum was obstinate, and would have it done. 
He was secretly atoning for a deep injustice, into 
which Richard had been at once too sensitive and 
too wise closely to inquire. If Mr. Slocum had 
harbored a temporary doubt of him Richard did 
not care to know it ; it was quite enough to suspect 
the fact. His sufficient recompense was that Mar- 
garet had not doubted. They had now been mar- 
ried six months. The shadow of the tragedy in 
W elch’s Court had long ceased to oppress them ; it 
had vanished with the hasty departure of Mr. Tag- 


824 


THE STILLWATER TRAGEDY. 


gett. Neither he nor William Durgin was ever seen 
again in the flesh in Stillwater ; but they both still 
led, and will probably continue for years to lead, a 
sort of phantasmal, legendary life in Snelling’s bar- 
room. Durgin in his flight had left no traces. 
From time to time, as the months rolled on, a 
misty rumor was blown to the town of his having 
been seen in some remote foreign city, — now in 
one place, and now in another, always on the point 
of departing, self-pursued like the Wandering Jew 
but nothing authentic. His after-fate was to be a 
sealed book to Stillwater. 

“ I really wish you had let the old sign stand,” 
said Richard, as the carpenters removed the lad- 
ders. The yard can never be anything but 
Slocum’s Yard.” 

“ It looks remarkably well up there,” replied 
Mr. Slocum, shading his eyes critically with one 
hand. You object to the change, but for my 
part I don’t object to changes. I trust I may live 
to see the day when even this sign will have to be 
altered to — Slocum, Shackford & Son. How would 
you like that ? ” 

“ I can’t say,” returned Richard laughing, as they 
passed into the yard together. “ I should first have 
to talk it over — with the son 1 ” 


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First Series. Including — 

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3 


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A Step Aside. i6mo 1.25 

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Frank Warrington. Happy-Go-Lucky. 

St. Philips. Phoebe. 

Richard Vandermarck. 

Each volume, i6mo 1.25 

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6 


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7 


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A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys. Holiday ^ 
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Grandfather^s Chair. Popular Edition. i6mo, paper 

covers 15 

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True Stories from New England History. i6mo, 

boards 45 

Little Daffy do wndilly, etc. i6mo, paper 15 

Franklin H. Head. 

Shakespeare's Insomnia, and the Causes Thereof. 

i6mo, parchment-paper 75 

Mrs. S. J. Higginson. 

A Princess of Java. i2mo . . . 1.50 

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Elsie Venner. A Romance of Destiny. Crown 8v6 . 2.00 

The Guardian Angel. Crown 8vo 2.00 

The Story of Iris. 32mo 75 

My Hunt after the Captain. 32mo 40 

A Mortal Antipathy. Crown 8vo 1.50 

Augustus Hoppin. 

Recollections of Auton House. Illustrated. Small 

4to 1.25 

A Fashionable Sufferer. Illustrated. i2mo . . . 1.50 

Two Compton Boys. Illustrated. Small 4to ... 1.50 

Blanche Willis Howard. 

One Summer. A Novel. New Popular Edition. Il- 
lustrated by Hoppin. i2mo 1.25 

William Dean Howells. 

Their Wedding Journey. Illustrated. i2mo ... 1.50 

The Same. “ Little Classic ” style. i8mo .... i.oo 
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8 


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The Same. Little Classic style. i8mo .... $1.25 


A Foregone Conclusion. i2mo 1.50 

The Lady of the Aroostook. i2mo 1.50 

The Undiscovered Country. i2mo 1.50 

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Thomas Hughes. 

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Douglas Jerrold. 

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Old Friends and New. i8mo 1.25 

Country By-Ways. i8mo 1.25 

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Little Classics.” Each in one volume. i8mo. 


I. Exile. 

II. Intellect. 

III. Tragedy. 

IV. Life. 

V. Laughter. 
VI. Love. 
VII. Romance. 
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XH. Fortune. 

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XIV. Lyrical Poems. 

XV. Minor Poems. 

XVI. Nature. 

XVH. Humanity. 
XVHI. Authors. 


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Zury : the Meanest Man in Spring County. i2mo . 1.50 

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S. Weir Mitchell. 

In War Time. i6mo 1.25 

Roland Blake. i6mo 1.25 

Mrs. M. O. W. Oliphant and T. B. Aldrich. 

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The Gates Ajar. i6mo 1.50 

Beyond the Gates. i6mo 1.25 

The Gates Between. i6mo 1.25 

Men, Women, and Ghosts. i6mo 1.50 

Hedged In. i6mo 1.50 

The Silent Partner. i6mo 1.50 

The Story of Avis. i6mo 1.50 

Sealed Orders, and Other Stories. i6mo 1.50 

Friends : A Duet. i6mo 1.25 

Doctor Zay. i6mo 1.25 

An Old Maid’s Paradise, and Burglars in Paradise. 

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Madonna of the Tubs. Illustrated. i2mo .... 1.50 

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S. Study of Hawthorne. By G. P. Lathrop. 

9. Detmold. By W. H. Bishop. 

10. Story of a Mine. By Bret Harte. 


Each volume, i6mo, cloth 50 

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The Feud of Oakfield Creek. i6mo 1.25 

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Old Mortality. 

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Ivanhoe. 

The Monastery. 

The Abbot. 

Kenilworth. 

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Peveril of the Peak. 
Quentin Durward. 

Each volume . . . 
The set 


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Rob Roy. 

St. Ronan’s Well. 

Redgauntlet. 

The Betrothed, and The 
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The Talisman, and Other 
Tales. 

Woodstock. 

The Fair Maid of Perth. 

Anne of Geierstein. 

Count Robert of Paris. 

The Surgeon’s Daughter, 
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I.oo 

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Tales of a Grandfather. Illustrated Library Edition. 

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The Children’s Book. Edited by Mr. Scudder. Small 
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Hammersmith : His Harvard Days. i2mo -. . . . 1.50 

J. E. Smith. 

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Mary A. Sprague. 


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William W. Story. 

Fiammetta. i6mo 1.25 

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Knitters in the Sun. i6mo . . . 1.25 

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• 



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Boilnyborough. i2mo 1.50 

Homespun Yarns. Short Stories. i2mo .... 1.50 


/ 


% 


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Was Shakespeare Shapleigh? A Correspondence in 
Two Entanglements. Edited by Justin Winsor. 
Parchment-paper, i6mo 75 


Lillie Chace Wyman. 

Poverty Grass. i6mc 


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